an to call any one else a beauty--that this Cossack maiden's cheeks
were as plump and fresh as the pinkest poppy when, bathed in God's dew,
it unfolds its petals, and coquets with the rising sun; that her brows
were evenly arched over her bright eyes like black cords, such as our
maidens buy nowadays, for their crosses and ducats, off the Moscow
pedlars who visit the villages with their baskets; that her little
mouth, at sight of which the youths smacked their lips, seemed made to
warble the songs of nightingales; that her hair, black as the raven's
wing, and soft as young flax, fell in curls over her shoulders, for
our maidens did not then plait their hair in pigtails interwoven with
pretty, bright-hued ribbons. Eh! may I never intone another alleluia in
the choir, if I would not have kissed her, in spite of the grey which is
making its way through the old wool which covers my pate, and of the old
woman beside me, like a thorn in my side! Well, you know what happens
when young men and maidens live side by side. In the twilight the heels
of red boots were always visible in the place where Pidorka chatted with
her Peter. But Korzh would never have suspected anything out of the
way, only one day--it is evident that none but the Evil One could have
inspired him--Peter took into his head to kiss the maiden's rosy lips
with all his heart, without first looking well about him; and that same
Evil One--may the son of a dog dream of the holy cross!--caused the old
grey-beard, like a fool, to open the cottage door at that same moment.
Korzh was petrified, dropped his jaw, and clutched at the door for
support. Those unlucky kisses completely stunned him.

Recovering himself, he took his grandfather's hunting whip from the
wall, and was about to belabour Peter's back with it, when Pidorka's
little six-year-old brother Ivas rushed up from somewhere or other, and,
grasping his father's legs with his little hands, screamed out, "Daddy,
daddy! don't beat Peter!" What was to be done? A father's heart is not
made of stone. Hanging the whip again on the wall, he led Peter quietly
from the house. "If you ever show yourself in my cottage again, or even
under the windows, look out, Peter, for, by heaven, your black moustache
will disappear; and your black locks, though wound twice about your
ears, will take leave of your pate, or my name is not Terentiy Korzh."
So saying, he gave him such a taste of his fist in the nape of his neck,
that all