was, the passing of
this silent peasant procession by the side of the clanging trains and
gray war automobiles!

"Who are these people?" I asked Sasha.

"They must be the fugitives," she replied. "Every day they come in
increasing numbers. I have heard the Kiev authorities are trying to turn
them aside and make them go round the outskirts; for what can a city do
with whole provinces of homeless and hungry peasants?"

"You mean they are the refugees who have been driven out of their homes
by the enemy?" I asked.

"Yes. By the Germans and Austrians."

The carts jolted slowly down the hill, the brakes grinding against the
wheels, the little rough-coated horses holding back in the shafts.
Sometimes, where there should have been two horses, there was only one.
The others evidently had been sold or else died on the way. Only one
small horse to drag a heavy double cart crowded with people and
furnishings. One little horse looked about to drop. His sides were
heaving painfully and his eyes were glazed. "Why don't they stop and
rest," I thought. "Why does that man keep on? His horse will die, and
then what will he do?"

"What do they do when their horses give out?" I asked Sasha.

"What can they do?" she replied. "What did they do when they were forced
to leave their farms and lands? They bear it. The Russian people have a
great capacity for suffering. Think of it--what this means
now--hundreds and hundreds of thousands of people made homeless and sent
wandering over the face of the earth. Think of the separations--the
families broken up--the bewilderment. A month ago, perhaps, they had
their houses and lands and food to eat. They were muzhiks. And now they
are wandering, homeless, like Tziganes. Ah, the Russian people were born
into a heritage of suffering, and to us all the future is hidden."

I kept my eyes on the endless procession. Some of the carts were open
farm wagons, piled with hay, and hung with strange assortments of
household utensils. Frying-pans and kettles were strung along the sides,
enameled ones, sometimes, that showed a former prosperity. Inside were
piles of mattresses and chairs; perhaps a black stovepipe stuck out
through the slatted sides of the cart. The women and children huddled
together in the midst of their household goods, wrapped up in the extra
petticoats and waists and shawls they had brought along--anything for
warmth. The children were pale and pinched, and some of them had their
eyes