The wage of their moiling
Candles to burn.
Prayers to repeat,
The saints to entreat;
For children are none.
This world is no fun
The way things run.
III
Their joys do now such numbers reach
God fathers and mothers
’Mid lots of others
Behold they have gathered
Three pairs of each.
At even they christen him,
And Mark is the name of him.
So Mark grows,
And so it goes.
For the dear old folk it is no joke,
For they don’t know where to go,
Where to set him, when to pet him.
But the year goes and still Mark grows.
Yet they care for him, you’d scarce tell how,
Just as he were a good milk-cow.
And now a woman young and bright,
With eyebrows dark and skin so white,
Comes into this blessed place,
For servant’s task she asks with grace.
“What, what—
say we’ll take her ’Stasia.”
“We’ll take her, Trophimus.
We are old and little wearies us;
He’s almost grown within a year,
But yet he’ll need more care, I fear.”
“Truly he’ll need care,
And now, praise God, I’ve done my share.
My knees are failing, so now
You poor thing, tell us your wage,
It is by the year or how?”
“What ever you like to give.”
“No, no, it’s needful to know,
It’s needful, my daughter,
to count one’s wage.
This you must learn, count what you earn.
This is the proverb—
Who counts not his money
Hasn’t got any.
But, child, how will this do?
You don’t know us,
We don’t know you.
You’ll stay with us a few days,
Get acquainted with our ways;
We’ll see you day by day,
Bye and bye we’ll talk of pay.
Is it so, daughter?”
“Very good, uncle.”
“We invite you into the house.”
And so they to agreement came.
The young woman seemed always the same,
Cheerful and happy as she’d married a lord
Who’d buy up villages just at her word.
She in the house and out doth work
From morning light to evening’s mirk.
And yet the child is her special care;
Whatever befalls, she’s the mother there.
Nor Monday nor Sunday this mother misses
To give its bath and its white dresses.
She plays and sings, makes wagons and things,
And on a holiday, plays with it all the day.
Wondering, the old folks gaze,
But to God they give the praise.
So the servant never rests,
But the night her spirit tests.
In her chamber then, I ween,
Many a tear she sheds unseen.
Yet none knows nor sees it all
But the little Mark so small.
Nor knows he why in hours of night
His tossings break her slumbers light.
So from her couch she quickly leaps,
The coverings o’er his limbs she keeps.
With sign of cross the child she blesses,
Her gentle care her love confesses.
Each morning Mark spreads out his hands
To the Servant as she stands;
Accepts, unknowing, a mother’s care.
Only to grow is his affair.
IV
Meantime many a year has rolled,
Many waters to the sea have flowed,
Trouble to the home has come,
Many a tear down the cheek has run.
Poor old ’Stasia in earth they laid.
Hardly old Trophim’ from death they saved.
The cursed trouble roared so loud,
And then it went to sleep, I trow.
From the dark woods where she frightened lay
Peace came back in the home to stay.
The little Mark is farmer now.
With ox-teams great in the fall must go
To far Crimea to barter there
Skins for salt and goods more rare.
The Servant and Trophimus
in counsel wise
Plans for his marriage
now devise.
Dared she her thoughts utter
For the Czar’s daughter
She’d send in a trice.
But the most she could say
While thinking this way
Was, “Ask Mark’s advice.”
“My daughter, we’ll ask him,
And then we’ll affiance him.”
So they gave him sage advice,
And they made decision nice.
Soon his grave friends about him stand.
He sends them to woo, a stately band.
Back they come with towels on shoulder
Ere the day is many hours older.
The sacred bread they have exchanged,
The bargain now is all arranged.
They’ve found a maiden in noble dress,
A princess true, you well may guess.
Such a queen is in this affiance
As with a general might make alliance.
“Hail, and well done,” the old man says,
“And now let’s have no more delays.
When the marriage, where the priest,
What about the wedding feast?
Who shall take the mother’s place?
How we’ll miss my ’Stasia’s face.”
The tears along his cheeks do fall,
Yet a word does the Servant’s heart appall.
Hastily rushing from the room,
In chamber near she falls in swoon.
The house is silent, the light is dim,
The sorrowing Servant thinks of him
And whispers: “Mother, mother, mother.”
V
All the week at the wedding cake
Young women in crowds both mix and bake.
The old man is in wondrous glee,
With all the young women dances he.
At sweeping the yard
He labors hard.
All passers-by on foot and horseback
He hales to the court where is no lack
Of good home-brew.
All comers he asks to the marriage
And yet ’tis true
He runs around so
You’d not guess from his carriage
Though his joy is such a wonderful gift,
His old legs are ’most too heavy to lift.
Everywhere is disorder and laughter
Within the house and in the yard.
From store-room keg upon keg follows after,
Workers’ voices everywhere heard.
They bake, they boil,
At sweeping toil,
Tables and floors they wash them all.
And where is the Servant
who cares not for wage?
To Kiev she is gone
on pilgrimage.
Yes, Anna went. The old man pled,
Mark almost wept for her to stay,
As mother sit, to see him wed.
Her call of duty elsewhere lay.
“No, Mark, such honor must I not take
To sit while you your homage make
To parents dear.
My mind is clear.
A servant must not thy mother be
Lest wealthy guests may laugh at thee.
Now may God’s mercy with thee stay,
To the saints at Kiev I go to pray.
But yet again shall I return
Unto your house, if you do not spurn
My strength and toil.”
With pure heart
she blessed her Mark
And weeping, passed
beyond the gate.
Then the wedding blossomed out;
Work for musicians and the joyous rout
Of dancing feet;
While mead so sweet
Of fermented honey with spices dashed
Over the benches and tables splashed,
Meanwhile the Servant limps along
Hastening on the weary road to Kiev.
To the city come, she does not rest,
Hires to a woman of the town;
For wages carries water.
You see she money, money needs
For prayers to Holy Barbara.
She water carries, never tarries,
And mighty store of pennies
