OnafrozenrivernearacertainRussiantown，agangofsevencarpenterswerehastilyrepairinganicebreakerwhichthetownsfolkhadstrippedforfirewood。

　　Thatyearspringhappenedtobelateinarriving，andyouthfulMarchlookedmorelikeOctober，andonlyatnoon，andthatnotoneveryday，didthepale，wintrysunshowhimselfintheovercastheavens，or，glimmeringinbluespacesbetweenclouds，contemplatetheearthwithasquinting，malevolenteye。

　　ThedayinquestionwastheFridayinHolyWeek，and，asnightdrewon，drippingswerebecomingcongealedintoicicleshalfanarshinlong，andinthesnow-strippediceoftheriveronlythedunhueofthewintrycloudswasreflected。

　　Asthecarpentersworkedtherekeptmournfully，insistentlyechoingfromthetownthecopperynoteofbells；andatintervalsheadswouldraisethemselves，andblueeyeswouldgleamthoughtfullythroughthesamegreyfoginwhichthetownlayenveloped，andanaxeupliftedwouldhoveramomentintheairasthoughfearingwithitsdescenttocleavethelusciousfloodofsound。

　　Scatteredoverthespaciousriver-trackweredarkpinebranches，projectingobliquelyfromtheice，tomarkpaths，openspaces，andcracksonthesurface；andwheretheyrearedthemselvesaloft，thesebrancheslookedlikethecramped，distortedarmsofdrowningmen。

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