before heard a dog barking in the city, and I laughed for happiness.

"Listen, a dog is barking."

My wife embraced me, and said:

"It is there, on the corner."

We bent over the window-sill, and there, in the transparent, dark
depth, we saw some movement--not people, but movement. Something was
moving about like a shadow. Suddenly the blows of a hatchet or a
hammer resounded. They sounded so cheerful, so resonant, as in a
forest, as on a river when you are mending a boat or building a dam.
And in the presentiment of cheerful, harmonious work, I firmly
embraced my wife, while she looked above the houses, above the roofs,
looked at the young crescent of the moon, which was already setting.
The moon was so young, so strange, even as a young girl who is
dreaming and is afraid to tell her dreams; and it was shining only
for itself.

"When will we have a full moon?..."

"You must not! You must not!" my wife interrupted. "You must not
speak of that which will be. What for? IT is afraid of words. Come
here."

It was dark in the room, and we were silent for a long time, without
seeing each other, yet thinking of the same thing. And when I
started to speak, it seemed to me that some one else was speaking; I
was not afraid, yet the voice of the other one was hoarse, as though