Iona turns his whole body round to his fare, and says: Iona gives a wry smile, and straining his throat, brings out huskily: "My son. Apparently he means to say something, but nothing comes but a sniff. Iona looks as his fare and moves his lips. "They are simply doing their best to run up against you or fall under the horse's feet. "What rascals they all are!" says the officer jocosely. Iona fidgets on the box as though he were sitting on thorns, jerks his elbows, and turns his eyes about like one possessed as though he did not know where he was or why he was there. "You don't know how to drive! Keep to the right," says the officer angrily.Ī coachman driving a carriage swears at him a pedestrian crossing the road and brushing the horse's nose with his shoulder looks at him angrily and shakes the snow off his sleeve. "Where the devil are you going? Keep to the r-right!" "Where are you shoving, you devil?" Iona immediately hears shouts from the dark mass shifting to and fro before him. The mare cranes her neck, too, crooks her stick-like legs, and hesitatingly sets of. The sledge-driver clicks to the horse, cranes his neck like a swan, rises in his seat, and more from habit than necessity brandishes his whip. In token of assent Iona gives a tug at the reins which sends cakes of snow flying from the horse's back and shoulders. Iona starts, and through his snow-plastered eyelashes sees an officer in a military overcoat with a hood over his head. The pale light of the street lamps changes to a vivid color, and the bustle of the street grows noisier. But now the shades of evening are falling on the town. They came out of the yard before dinnertime and not a single fare yet. It is a long time since Iona and his nag have budged. Anyone who has been torn away from the plough, from the familiar gray landscapes, and cast into this slough, full of monstrous lights, of unceasing uproar and hurrying people, is bound to think. Her stillness, the angularity of her lines, and the stick-like straightness of her legs make her look like a halfpenny gingerbread horse. His little mare is white and motionless too. If a regular snowdrift fell on him it seems as though even then he would not think it necessary to shake it off. He sits on the box without stirring, bent as double as the living body can be bent. Iona Potapov, the sledge-driver, is all white like a ghost. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses' backs, shoulders, caps. Uncle Tom's Cabin - Harriet Beecher Stowe.The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett.The Red Badge of Courage - Stephen Crane.The Scarlet Letter - Nathaniel Hawthorne.
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