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your eyes closed. Only one eye, not a hair on her head, and cockscombs growing all over it, waving back and forth. There's one growing from her eye too. It's called cock's fringe. But it isn't Illness either, God forbid, God forbid. It's a Consequence. She's a nice woman all the same, and she writes beautiful and clean. And if you run out of ink, she'll always give you some of hers.
    And fringe isn't Illness, God forbid, God forbid. And the Saniturions don't need to come, no, no, no.
    They hit the clapper: work time. Benedikt sat down at his table, arranged the candle, spat on his writing stick, raised his eyebrows, stretched out his neck, and looked at the scroll: what did he have to copy today? He got Fyodor Kuzmich's Tales.
    "Once upon a time," Benedikt wrote, "there was a goose who laid a golden egg." There you go, another Consequence. Everyone has Consequences! Take Anfisa Terentevna, she had a lot of grief from her chickens last year. And what chickens they were: big, beautiful, choice. They laid black and marble eggs--you couldn't find better! Kvas made of those eggs went straight to your head. You drain a pitcher of that kvas, and right away-- bam! You feel like showing your stuff. You look around--everyone's double. A girl passes by--and it seems like there's two of her. You shout, "Girls! Come on over and fool around with me" --and she runs off. You roll over with laughter! You look at Anfisa Terentevna--and there's two of her too. But don't try to fool around with her, or Polikarp Matveich will come out, and there'll
    be two of him, and that's no joke, one of him is scary enough.
    How those chickens would sing in the summer when the twilight fell and the moon rose in the sky, the sunset smoldered, the dew began to gather, and the flowers smelled sweet! Fine young fellows and fair maids would sit out in the yard, munching pickled nuts, chewing firelings, sighing, or chatting and pinching each other. As soon as the first star rolled out in the sky, the chickens would begin to sing. At first they'd crackle like kindling, then you'd hear a trrrrr, trrrr, then croo-croo-croo, and then when they got going, they'd roll out such thundering roulades, it'd warm your heart, as if you were flying off somewhere, or running down a mountain, or remembering some strange poems by Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe:
    On the black sky--words are inscribed-- And magnificent eyes are blinded ... And we fear not the mortal bed, And for us the lounge of passion isn't sweet. Writing--in sweat, working--in sweat! We know a different fervor: Light fire dancing over curls-- A little breath--and inspiration!
    And when autumn came with its rains and winds, all the fowl in the whole settlement headed south. Their owners would come out to see them off, sad and glum. The head hen would move in front, stick one leg out, flap her wings--and they'd all belt out a last, farewell song. They'd soar to the skies, take a turn around their homes, stretch out into a line, and fly off in pairs. You'd wave a kerchief, and sometimes the women would start wailing.
    But then those chickens just went plain mad. They stopped flying, stopped singing, autumn passed, winter was just around the corner, all the other birds had headed south, and these crazies stayed put. Anfisa Terentevna shooed them with a switch broom, but they balked, ruffled their feathers, and even seemed to start talking like people. "Walk, talk, balk, whoo, whoo, whoo?" they asked, laughing at her. And they took to laying big, scary-looking white eggs. The poor woman near to lost her mind with fright. Benedikt rushed to help her and together they
    smothered those evil birds. They left one egg as a curiosity. Benedict showed it to Nikita Ivanich. The old man--he's never afraid of anything--cracked the egg open on the edge of a bowl, and inside--Lord save us!--there was a yellow ball that looked like it was floating in thick water, and there wasn't any kvas malt at all... Lord Almighty! The old Stoker jumped