I am in the village of Kochki. It is a little bit of Ukraine. The village was established by Ukrainians by birth in the second half of the 19th century. Akim Bedrach for whom I work once evidently was a forehanded farmer who managed to survive when the establishment of collective farms wiped off and destroyed everything speaking of good contrivers' labour... His elder sons are at was. The wife is ill. Akim works at the collective farm smithery, makes and sharpens shares. I am a real godsend to them! And I am happy to be settled for a while. I dig from dawn till dark and, as the phrase goes, leather away on the job. So they gave me the toughest plot near the lake and decided to plow the other one, on the slope, with a wooden plough fortunately remaining in Akim's attic since grandfathers' times. The whole family, including the oldwife, the daughter-in-law, both married daughters and the eldest granddaughter yoked to it, the eldest grandson of about 10 years old ran the plough, and Bedrach yoked as a forehorse. And in such a pharaoh way the kitchen garden was plowed.