Christmas Eve

- Drowned! By God, he drowned! so that I don't leave this place if I don't drown! - babbled a fat weaver, standing in a heap of Dikan women in the middle of the street.
- Well, am I what a liar? did I steal a cow from someone? have I jinxed someone that they have no faith in me? - shouted a woman in a Cossack scroll, with a purple nose, waving her arms. - So that I do not want to drink water, if the old Pepperchikha did not see with her own eyes how the blacksmith hanged himself!
- The blacksmith hanged himself? here you go! - Said the head, coming out of Chub, stopped and squeezed closer to those who were talking.
- Better tell you not to want to drink vodka, old drunkard! - answered the weaver, - you need to be as crazy as you to hang yourself! He drowned! drowned in the forehead! I know this as well as the fact that you were now at the shank.
- Shit! See what I began to reproach! The woman with the purple nose angrily objected. - Would be silent, you scoundrel! Don't I know that the clerk comes to see you every evening?
The weaver flushed.
- What a clerk? to whom is the clerk? what are you lying?
- Sexton? - sang, crowding to the arguing, the clerk's wife, in a sheepskin coat made of hare fur, covered with blue Chinese. - I'll let the clerk know! Who says this - a clerk?
- But to whom the clerk goes! Said a woman with a purple nose, pointing to the weaver.
- So it's you, bitch, - said the clerk's wife, approaching the weaver, - is it you, the witch, fogging him up and giving him an unclean potion to go to you?
Get rid of me, Satan! - the weaver said, backing away.
- See, damned witch, so that you do not wait for your children to see, you worthless! Ugh! .. - Here the deacon spat right in the weaver's eyes.
The weaver wanted to do the same for herself, but instead spat in her unshaven beard on her head, which, in order to hear everything better, crept up to the arguing themselves.