Poor Folk — June 22nd Makar

June 22nd.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I have to tell you that a sad event has happened in this house--an event to excite one’s utmost pity.

This morning, about five o’clock, one of Gorshkov’s children died of scarlatina, or something of the kind.

I have been to pay the parents a visit of condolence, and found them living in the direst poverty and disorder.

Nor is that surprising, seeing that the family lives in a single room, with only a screen to divide it for decency’s sake.

Already the coffin was standing in their midst--a plain but decent shell which had been bought ready-made.

The child, they told me, had been a boy of nine, and full of promise.

What a pitiful spectacle!

Though not weeping, the mother, poor woman, looked broken with grief.

After all, to have one burden the less on their shoulders may prove a relief, though there are still two children left--a babe at the breast and a little girl of six!

How painful to see these suffering children, and to be unable to help them!

The father, clad in an old, dirty frockcoat, was seated on a dilapidated chair.

Down his cheeks there were coursing tears--though less through grief than owing to a long-standing affliction of the eyes.

He was so thin, too!

Always he reddens in the face when he is addressed, and becomes too confused to answer.

A little girl, his daughter, was leaning against the coffin--her face looking so worn and thoughtful, poor mite!

Do you know, I cannot bear to see a child look thoughtful.

On the floor there lay a rag doll, but she was not playing with it as, motionless, she stood there with her finger to her lips.

Even a bon-bon which the landlady had given her she was not eating.

Is it not all sad, sad, Barbara?

MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.