OnafrozenrivernearacertainRussiantown，agangofsevencarpenterswerehastilyrepairinganicebreakerwhichthetownsfolkhadstrippedforfirewood。
Thatyearspringhappenedtobelateinarriving，andyouthfulMarchlookedmorelikeOctober，andonlyatnoon，andthatnotoneveryday，didthepale，wintrysunshowhimselfintheovercastheavens，or，glimmeringinbluespacesbetweenclouds，contemplatetheearthwithasquinting，malevolenteye。
ThedayinquestionwastheFridayinHolyWeek，and，asnightdrewon，drippingswerebecomingcongealedintoicicleshalfanarshinlong，andinthesnow-strippediceoftheriveronlythedunhueofthewintrycloudswasreflected。
Asthecarpentersworkedtherekeptmournfully，insistentlyechoingfromthetownthecopperynoteofbells；andatintervalsheadswouldraisethemselves，andblueeyeswouldgleamthoughtfullythroughthesamegreyfoginwhichthetownlayenveloped，andanaxeupliftedwouldhoveramomentintheairasthoughfearingwithitsdescenttocleavethelusciousfloodofsound。
Scatteredoverthespaciousriver-trackweredarkpinebranches，projectingobliquelyfromtheice，tomarkpaths，openspaces，andcracksonthesurface；andwheretheyrearedthemselvesaloft，thesebrancheslookedlikethecramped，distortedarmsofdrowningmen。