The Works of Nikolai Gogol, Vol. 1 (1842) - Page 25

tsi, was seething with people hurrying from all the nearby and distant farms to the fair.
Since morning, an endless procession of Chumaks Ukrainian traveling merchants/drovers had been trailing along with salt and fish. Mountains of pots, wrapped in hay, moved slowly, appearing bored by their confinement and darkness; in places, only some brightly painted bowl or makitra a large ceramic vessel for grinding or storing food would boastfully poke out from the wickerwork piled high on the cart, attracting the tender gazes of lovers of luxury. Many passersby looked with envy at the tall potter, the owner of these treasures, who walked with slow steps behind his merchandise, carefully wrapping his clay dandies and coquettes in the hay that was so hateful to them.

Alone to the side, a cart pulled by exhausted oxen dragged along, piled with sacks, hemp, linen, and various household goods, behind which walked its master in a clean linen shirt and stained linen <term>sharovary</term> <gloss>wide, baggy trousers typical of Ukrainian folk dress</gloss>. With a lazy hand, he wiped the sweat rolling in rivers from his dark face and even dripping from his long mustache, powdered by that relentless barber who appears without summons to both the beautiful and the ugly, and has forcibly powdered the entire human race for some thousands of years.