Page:The way of Martha and the way of Mary (1915).djvu/70



, March 1914.

the summer, in which I lived in a cottage in the Urals, there passed my window an endless procession of weary tramps, not in flocks or crowds, in hundreds or in fifties, but in twos and threes day by day. I saw them on the highway stamping their weak boots and bruised feet in the deep August dust, trudging forward patiently, patiently. They would come to the door, untie the black kettle that dangled from the pack on their shoulders, beg water to make tea, sit down to munch our peasant-wife's pastry, resting their ragged elbows on the unvarnished table, holding a saucerful of hot tea in both hands, and sucking at it and breathing over it in manifest appreciation and satisfaction.

I would ask one of them, "What are you, brother, a pilgrim?"

"No, brother, we seek land," he would answer. "Where we live it is too close—we live too near together; we are going to Siberia to get land."