Another guy over there is bragging about his pickled reeds, shouting, screeching-and there are marinated ferns, cookies, and other things.

There are pickled nuts, cloth with plain threads, colored threads, bunches of lapty tied in pairs; rabbit hides or goat wool: buy it and boil yourself some boots, or knit a pair of socks if you know how; there are bone needles, stone knives, stone buckets and wooden ones, tongs, poleaxes, brooms-whatever you fancy.

And there's a whole row of flreling peddlers: these traders are important, silent, they stand with their arms folded on their stomachs, looking out from under their eyebrows, their faces all red. They're mysterious. They don't talk. And why are they so quiet? It's their habit. You have to be quiet to pick firelings, so they're used to it. You stand, look the goods over. You feel small and timid, but oh how you want to eat those firelings! You ask the trader: "How much?"

He doesn't answer, just chews on his lip. Then he says: "These, five each. These-seven."

Jeez, expensive!…

"They're not fakes?"

Again, he doesn't answer right away. "People've bought them, they're still alive."

Should you believe him or not? You just don't know. You shuffle around… You count out five mice. You take one fireling. Put it in your cheek. So sweet! Maybe you won't croak from just one. Maybe you'll just vomit. Or your hair will fall out. Or your neck will swell up. Or maybe you'll live. What did

Mother die from? She ate a whole bowl at one sitting. Nikita Ivanich always told her: "Polina Mikhailovna, why such lack of restraint?! Don't eat those figs! They're radioactive!" But would she listen? No, she stuffed herself.

Right now Benedikt didn't want to start thinking about anything sad. Spring was running in from the south like the Gingerbread Man. The New Year was bringing it! A Holiday was around the corner. Jokes and laughter. The blind men were there too. They crowded around the fence-some played on spoons, others tooted on whistles-and they sang:

For we are jolly good fellows, For we are jolly good fellows…

They feel spring coming too. Their guide is also full of vinegar, he keeps an eagle eye out, watches the Golubchiks sternly: Come on now, who's listening to the song? Pay up, don't pass by! There's plenty of you who listen and don't pay. Blind people are blind because they can't see a darn thing. They sing and sing, sing their hearts out, and sometimes a Golubchik will listen, grab his pleasure and run off without paying. How can the blind catch him? They can't! They're in the dark. Even a midsummer's day is dark for them. If not for the guide, they'd die of hunger. Benedikt adored folk songs. Especially in a chorus. Or when they were real lively. Now the blind people belted out:

The heart of a beauty!

Is wont to betray!

It's ever as fickle,

As the warm winds of May!

Your feet just can't keep still, they start dancing on their own. There are other good ones. Black Eyes. The Outlaw Stenka Razin. I Wanna Hold Your Hand. Down by the Riverside. And many more.

But this morning Benedikt felt a new feeling. He felt smart and rich. Rich because he was smart. Look how he planned everything-and it all worked. He tied the mice up in bunches- five in each; braided their tails, strung them on a rope and belted it around his waist. He was walking tall. Things were great. And kind of different for a change.

Usually you shuffle along, looking around: are there any bosses in sight? If they're riding in sleighs, you jump to the side of the road, take your hat off and bow. You slap a sweet smile on your face. Then you crinkle up your eyes like you're bursting with joy. You look like you're all surprised-how is it that you, a simple Golubchik, are lucky enough to get to see a Murza? Even if you bump into the same creep forty or fifty times a day, just look surprised, like he wasn't a Murza, but Grandma come visiting with a basket of goodies.

You bow, of course, depending on the rank. If it's a Lesser Murza, you put your hand on your stomach and lower your head.

If it's a Greater Murza, you bow at the waist; your hair should touch the snow or the dust, and your arm should arch back.

If it's a red sleigh… God forbid… No. No. No. Knock on wood, knock knock, knock. No. No.

The Murza will drive past, cover you with dust and dirt- then you can put your hat back on, wipe your face with your sleeve-and you're free at last. You can wear your plain, mean, everyday face, you can spit, cuss a bit, throw some insult after him-it's up to you. Or you might just grumble: "Sitting pretty are you…?" But what for? He can't exactly stand up in a sleigh, can he? Or you might say something a bit longer: "Riding, they're always riding and riding, who the hell knows where they're going." That's just to let off steam: the Murza probably knows where he's going.

You just say things like that to make yourself feel better. When you growl through your teeth, grumble and grouse-the anger feels good, it kind of rolls around all prickly warm inside you. You wanna show off your strength. Kick a fence. Or a dog if you meet one. Or smack one of the guys around. Whatever. There are all kinds of things you can do.

But sometimes you don't feel like getting mad. It's like there's a sadness inside. Like you feel sorry for someone. Must be feelosophy.

But this morning Benedikt had a new feeling. He felt smart and rich, and he wanted everyone to see: there he goes, Bene-dikt, smart and rich. And generous. He stopped, listened to the blind people. They were singing a rousing old song: "Two one two, eighty-five oh three!" He listened and threw them a bunch of mice. That's right, a whole bunch. We're out on the town!

Then he threw the beggars a bunch-here you go! They almost started fighting, tore the offering to bits in a thrice. What a hoot! Then he walked along the rows, tasting the goodies. Oh, he could feel the respect, they noticed him…

The merchants bowed: "Over here, please!… What's your pleasure? Pickles, sir, try them, our pickles are the best!…"

He tried the pickles. Bought some. He bought everything that struck his fancy-plain and pickled and stuffed. Bought a quarter pood of goosefoot crackers, some goat curd, half a dozen firelings to bake sweet rolls. Marinated noodles. Turnips. Red and blue peas. A pitcher of kvas. He bought a bunch of baskets and put all his provisions in them. Then he rented a serf to carry all this stuff home, though, truth be told, it wasn't all that heavy. But he wanted to show off how important he was. Like, I'm a head above this humble servant, higher than the Alexander column, I won't dirty my hands carrying baskets. I have a servant. You're no match for me.

But it went all wrong. People who didn't know Benedikt thought that such a rich man would surely ride in a sleigh, but did Benedikt have a sleigh? So some of the creeps giggled at him. And people who knew him decided that this wasn't a serf, but a chum of Benedikt's, and they were surprised that this chum was lugging all the boxes, was all bent over, while Benedikt was walking along with his hands in his pockets, whistling, and not helping a whit. He wanted to enjoy a bit of boasting, but it didn't work out.

And Benedikt was afraid to get too far ahead of the serf. The second you turn around, one step to the side, he'd be off into a lane with all that stuff. Benedikt wasn't taking any chances!! You'd never find the serf again. So he walked right behind the serf, step for step. Every once in a while he shouted: "Not that way, that way! Turn! Turn, I tell you, you s.o.b.! Left. I see everything, everything! I'm right behind you! I'm watching." Things like that.

It was nerve-racking. But they got there all right. Maybe the serf, even though he was a serf, realized that you couldn't run far with all that stuff. Benedikt would catch up and give him a thrashing. When Benedikt hired him at the market, in the serf's shed, he made sure to show him his fists, and he made a mean face full of enough fury, suspicion, and dissatisfaction for all the Golubchiks and serfs in town. Gave him a good scare.