ollection in
themselves. From among these the author has made fifty selections.

In the letter accompanying the pages which we are now about to print, I.
S. Turgenieff says, in conclusion:

"... Let not your reader peruse these 'Poems in Prose' at one sitting;
he will probably be bored, and the book will fall from his hands. But
let him read them separately,--to-day one, to-morrow another,--and then
perchance some one of them may leave some trace behind in his soul...."

The pages have no general title; the author has written on their
wrapper: "Senilia--An Old Man's Jottings,"--but we have preferred the
words carelessly dropped by the author in the end of his letter to us,
quoted above,--"Poems in Prose"--and we print the pages under that
general title. In our opinion, it fully expresses the source from which
such comments might present themselves to the soul of an author well
known for his sensitiveness to the various questions of life, as well as
the impression which they may produce on the reader, "leaving behind in
his soul" many things. They are, in reality, poems in spite of the fact
that they are written in prose. We place them in chronological order,
beginning with the year 1878.

M. S.[68]

October 28, 1882.

I

(1878)

THE VILLAGE

The last day of July; for a thousand versts round about lies Russia, the
fatherland.

The whole sky is suffused with an even azure; there is only one little
cloud in it, which is half floating, half melting. There is no wind, it
is warm ... the air is like new milk!

Larks are carolling; large-cropped pigeons are cooing; the swallows dart
past in silence; the horses neigh and munch, the dogs do not bark, but
stand peaceably wagging their tails.

And there is an odour of smoke abroad, and of grass,--and a tiny whiff
of tan,--and another of leather.--The hemp-patches, also, are in their
glory, and emit their heavy but agreeable fragrance.

A deep but not long ravine. Along its sides, in several rows, grow
bulky-headed willows, stripped bare at the bottom. Through the ravine
runs a brook; on its bottom tiny pebbles seem to tremble athwart its
pellucid ripples.--Far away, at the spot where the rims of earth and sky
come together, is the bluish streak of a large river.

Along the ravine, on one side are neat little storehouses, and buildings
with tightly-closed doors; on the other side are five or six pine-log
cottages with board roofs. Over each roof r