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Updated: May 15, 2025
Then there is the pitch-boiler. You can smell him from afar, and see him glitter through the thicket. His pitch-oil is bought by the wood-cutter for his wounds, by the charcoal-burner for his burns, by the carter for his horse, by the brandy-distiller for his casks. It is a remedy for all ailments. The most dangerous of all the forest-devils is the brandy-distiller.
In the parsonage lies a farm-hand with a broken jaw. Drink and quarrel and fight it is ever the same. The priest has warned them often enough. He has called the brandy-distiller a poison-brewer, and a few days ago the distiller came to the parsonage, armed with a heavy stick. He poured out his complaints. The priest was spoiling his honest business. What was he to do?
Go on!" A deafening, drunken laughter smote the air about them, and choking with laughter, the son of the brandy-distiller roared to someone hoarsely: "Come to me! A hundred roubles a month with board and lodging! Throw the paper to the dogs. I'll give you more!" And everything rocked from side to side in rhythmic, wave-like movement.
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