There's а smell of crumbly ovencake,
By the door - a tub of kvass.
Round the niches on the stove wall
Cockroaches creep into cracks.
There's а wisp of smoke by the stove-door,
In the grate white ash of great length
And egg-shells freshly broken
By the salt box upon the bench.
The oven-fork Mother can't steadily
Handle, she has to bend down,
While the old cat's heading stealthily
For the milk fresh from the cow.
The hens are clucking restlessly,
Perched on the wooden plough shafts,
The cocks in the yard start rendering
In concert an early mass.
At the entrance, where the porch is,
By the bustle terrified
Puppies crawl into dark corners
Under yokes and sacks to hide.