He heard the sounds of the dismal, snow-covered fields, with their heaps of frozen manure resembling rows of small, snow-covered graves, the sounds of the blue, tender distance, of the buzzing telegraph wires, and the conversation of other people.

What the fields and telegraph wires spoke to him he alone knew, and the conversation of the people were disquieting, full of rumors about murders and robberies and arson.
And one night he heard in the neighboring village the little church bell ringing faintly and helplessly, and the crackling of the flames of a fire.

Some vagabonds had plundered a rich farm, had killed the master and his wife, and had set fire to the house.
And on their farm, too, they lived in fear; the dogs were loose, not only at night, but also during the day, and the master slept with a gun by his side.

He wished to give such a gun to Yanson, only it was an old one with one barrel.

But Yanson turned the gun about in his hand, shook his head and declined it.