these big peasant soldiers they plunge, crying out—"Take nothing. The Revolution forbids it. No looting. This is the property of the people."
Children piping against a cyclone, dwarfs attacking an army of giants. So seem these protesters, trying to stem with words the onslaught of soldiers flushed with conquest, pillage-bent. The mob goes on pillaging. Why should it heed the protest of a handful of workmen?
The Restraining Hand
of Revolution.
But these workmen will be heeded. Back of their words they feel the will of the Revolution. It makes them fearless and aggressive. They turn upon the big soldiers with fury, hurl epithets into their faces, wrest the booty out of their hands. In a short time they have them on the defensive.
A big peasant making off with a heavy woolen blanket is waylaid by a little workingman. He grabs hold of the blanket, tugs away at one end of it, scolding the big fellow like a child.
"Let go the blanket," growls the peasant, his face convulsed with rage. "It's mine."
"No, no," the workingman cries, "it's not yours. It belongs to all the people. Nothing goes out of the Palace tonight."
"Well, this blanket goes out tonight. It's cold in the barracks!"
"I'm sorry you're cold, tovarish. Better for you
