OWN)_

THE earth was like an oven. The afternoon sun blazed with such
energy that even the thermometer hanging in the excise officer's
room lost its head: it ran up to 112.5 and stopped there, irresolute.
The inhabitants streamed with perspiration like overdriven horses,
and were too lazy to mop their faces.

Two of the inhabitants were walking along the market-place in front
of the closely shuttered houses. One was Potcheshihin, the local
treasury clerk, and the other was Optimov, the agent, for many years
a correspondent of the _Son of the Fatherland_ newspaper. They
walked in silence, speechless from the heat. Optimov felt tempted
to find fault with the local authorities for the dust and disorder
of the market-place, but, aware of the peace-loving disposition and
moderate views of his companion, he said nothing.

In the middle of the market-place Potcheshihin suddenly halted and
began gazing into the sky.

"What are you looking at?"

"Those starlings that flew up. I wonder where they have settled.
Clouds and clouds of them. . . . If one were to go and take a shot
at them, and if one were to pick them up . . . and if . . . They
have settled in the Father Prebendary's garden!"

"Oh no! They are not in the Father Prebendary's, they are in the
Father Deacon's. If you did have a shot at them from here you
wouldn't kill anything. Fine shot won't carry so far; it loses its
force. And why should you kill them, anyway? They're birds destructive
of the fruit, that's true; still, they're fowls of the air, works
of the Lord. The starling sings, you know. . . . And what does it
sing, pray? A song of praise. . . . 'All ye fowls of the air, praise
ye the Lord.' No. I do believe they have settled in the Father
Prebendary's garden."

Three old pilgrim women, wearing bark shoes and carrying wallets,
passed noiselessly by the speakers. Looking enquiringly at the
gentlemen who were for some unknown reason staring at the Father
Prebendary's house, they slackened their pace, and when they were
a few yards off stopped, glanced at the friends once more, and then
fell to gazing at the house themselves.

"Yes, you were right; they have settled in the Father Prebendary's,"
said Optimov. "His cherries are ripe now, so they have gone there
to peck them."

From the garden gate emerged the Father Prebendary himself, accompanied
by the sexton. Seeing the attention directed upon his abode and
wondering what people were staring at, he st