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It was the month of March, and they were just driven out; the weather was mild, and the grass had appeared, but the wind was bitterly cold in the evening, and it began to rain. The rain soon turned to snow, and our wet cloaks were frozen as hard as boards. A few hours after, came a Siberian viuga, or snowdrift, from the north-east, whistling about our ears till seeing or hearing was impossible.
The viuga raged all that day, and the poor sheep were even more wild and frightened than in the night. Sometimes we gave up all as lost, but roused ourselves again, and ran with the screaming, bleating flock, while the oxen trotted after with the wagon, and the dogs came howling behind.
We tried to find our way home, from which we were not far distant; but the sheep would not face the wind, and even the goats, who will face anything but a viuga, began to run before the storm. To prevent the flock from scampering away was impossible, and all that could be done was to keep them together. We had to race all night, and in the morning there was nothing but snow all round us.
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