did. Well, if he does not remember your faithful service, there is

another way of making him give you the food that you have honestly deserved from him.'

'Oh! if you could manage that, some day I would repay you for it!' exclaimed poor Browny, licking his lips at the very thought of a good dinner.

'We'll manage it,' said the Wolf. 'When your master comes out into the field with his family to reap the corn, his wife will lay down the baby under a rick; you keep close by, so that I may know which is their field. I will seize the child and run off; you rush after me and make believe to snatch the child away from me, and I will let it go as if I were afraid of you. Then everything will go as you wish.'

No sooner said than done. At harvest-time the man came out into the field with his family to reap. His wife laid down the baby under a rick, took a sickle, and went with her husband to reap. Suddenly the Wolf rushed up, snatched the baby, and ran off. Browny sprang out of the corn and after him. The baby's father and mother were dreadfully frightened: the father tore along, shouting, 'Catch him, Browny--bite him! bite him!...' And Browny did his best: he caught up the Wolf, took the child from him, and brought it to his master.

'Good dog, Browny!' said the master. 'Oh you good dog! I thought he wasn't fit for anything now, and see what a plucky fellow he is!' and he took half a loaf and a piece of lard out of his bag and gave them to Browny.

In the evening the peasants went home, and Browny with them. When they got in, the man said to his wife: 'Light the fire and make us some buck-wheat dough-dumplings, with plenty of lard.'

Browny's mistress made the dumplings--capital dumplings--so nice that they would make your mouth water to look at them! The master gave Browny a seat at the table as if the dog were his best friend, and sat down beside him. Browny, on his part, made an agreeable face, and expressed by his whole appearance that he would know how to behave himself, even if he were the _starosta_ (elder) of the village.

'Now, wife,' said the man, 'turn the dumplings out into the bowl, and let us have supper!'

The wife filled the bowl, and the husband put a helping for Browny into a smaller bowl, and blew it a long time, so that Browny should not burn his muzzle. He had become such an important person all of a sudden!

Browny lived in peace and plenty, but he did not forget his benefactor, the Wolf. He used to think: 'Perhaps the Wolf is wandering about the steppes now, starving!' Then he would grow quite melancholy, and shake his head, sighing.

Meanwhile, Carnival came round, and the peasant began making wedding preparations--his daughter was to be married. Then Browny shook off all his melancholy. He went far away from the village, and called the Wolf. When the Wolf came up, they hardly recognised one another: Browny had grown fat and glossy, while as for the unhappy Wolf, he was thin, worn-out--nothing but skin and bones; his fur hung in ragged tufts, and his teeth chattered from hunger. When Browny looked at his friend his heart ached for pity.

'Come on Sunday evening, brother, to my master's garden-plot,' said the Dog to the Wolf; 'I'll give you such a feast as you have not had in all your life!'

Now a good dinner was a rare thing to the poor Wolf; his eyes shone with delight, and he felt quite sick with hunger.

On Sunday evening the Wolf came to the place agreed upon. That very evening was the wedding feast in the house of Browny's master. Browny came out to his friend, and, seizing a moment when there was no one in the cottage, led him in and hid him under the table. The feast began. When the food was put on the table, Browny instantly snatched a big hunch of bread and the best slice of roast meat and carried it under the table. The guests shouted at him; some wanted to strike him; but the master of the house stopped them, saying: 'Don't touch him; that dog is allowed to do anything he likes; he saved my child, and I will keep him till he dies!' That was just what Browny wanted: he pulled all the best things off the table, and gave them to his friend--pies, everything, even a bottle of _horílka_.[7] The _horílka_ made the Wolf tipsy, and he said to Browny:

[7] Oukraïnïen whisky.

'I want to sing a song!'

'Heaven forbid!' answered Browny; 'there'll be the devil to pay here! I'll bring you a bottle of _nalívka_,[8] only hold your tongue!'

[8] _Nalívka_--sweet pleasant Oukraïnïen liquor made of whisky and fruit.

But after drinking the _nalívka_, the Wolf grew merrier than ever.

'You can do as you like,' said he; 'but now I am going to sing.' He lifted up his muzzle, and such a howl as he set up under the table!

Every one was terrified. Some ran right out of the cottage, some caught up sticks and spades and wanted to kill the Wolf there and then. Browny, seeing that it was a bad job, flew at his friend as if to strangle him. Then the host called out to his guests: 'Don't hit the Wolf, or you will kill my Browny. Let them alone; Browny will settle the Wolf by himself.'

The dog, meanwhile, struggling and pretending to bite, managed to get his friend first out of the cottage, then out of the garden and right across the fields. Then he stopped.

'There, brother,' said he to the Wolf; 'you did me a good turn, and I've done you one. Good-bye!'

'Thank you!' said the Wolf. 'Good luck to you!'

And so they parted.

THE OLD SWORD'S MISTAKE

Once upon a time there was a steel sword, whose blade was forged and tempered in a most excellent manner. The handle was of precious wood, with beautiful inlaid work of mother-of-pearl and gold. From his very birth the Sword was in the service of a gallant knight; and a sturdy, faithful sword he was. He fought for the sake of truth and of every fair lady, and against all oppressors of the weak. All who, even by word or glance, injured a lady dreaded the steel weapon: there was no man, no arms in the world, whom the steel warrior feared. But the valiant knight was killed in a hard fight, and the Sword remained lying on the battle-field. There the wind blew sand upon him, and leaves, fallen during the autumn from the neighbouring bushes, covered him. And many long years he lay there buried and unseen, until a peasant proposed to clear the ground, and his plough ran by chance against the Sword. The first thing that the ploughman did was to utter an oath, for his coulter, in striking against the stout weapon, received a notch. Then the Sword was dug out, taken to town, and sold to an old curiosity shop. The shopman hung the Sword on a nail.

From his lofty resting-place the old warrior, in glancing about the shop, saw in the corner of the hall a white lady of astonishing beauty. She was clad only in a loose-fitting garment about her fair form. Her neck, arms, and feet were bare; her hair was all combed back, then caught up by a diadem, from which it hung down in a shower of curls. She stood erect, and did not move. On her fair lips played an enigmatic smile, while her beautiful arms hung loose beside her, and her whole form seemed to breathe with free, powerful peace. One thing alone appeared to the steel warrior somewhat strange: the fair one was all white; her cheeks, eyes, hair; her hands and feet; her garments and diadem,--all were like fresh snow. But this seemed only to give a new charm to her beauty. The longer the old Sword gazed at the white unknown woman, the brighter grew his blade, the more merrily danced all the rainbow tints in his mother-of-pearl inlaid work, and the stronger grew his wish to fight as of old for truth's and a lady's sake--nay, for this very lady.

The steel warrior longed to speak to the white beauty, but he did not venture. 'I am so old,' he thought; 'so notched; even somewhat rusty ... while she is so fair!... No, no, it would not do. Methinks she would not even mind me or look at me.'...

Now the old Sword glanced at the lady in the corner, and she gazed at him, smiling enigmatically....

'Oh,' thought the sturdy warrior, 'if only I could do something for her!' But there seemed no chance of being of use to the fair creature. The Sword could no longer bear such suspense. He summoned up all his courage, and uttered in a faltering clang: 'Queen of my soul! tell me what you desire. Only tell me, and I will do it; at least I will attempt anything for you!' But the White Beauty remained speechless, and only smiled enigmatically as before.

'Why does she keep silence?' This was the question that tormented the old Sword, and he looked at the fair lady with anguish. Oh how much she might say if she would but speak! What power breathes through her apparent calm! And her smile! what a rich soul it hides! Nay, if this heavenly creature does not speak it is certainly only in consequence of some spell laid upon her! And the old fighter looked around, pondering over the question, Who could be the malicious sorcerer? It could not be the gigantic snake, stuffed with tow, that stood in an opposite corner, for its eyes were but glass, and though they say snakes fascinate birds and little animals, they need living eyes for the purpose. Nor could it be yonder ivory-headed cane near the shelf; it had the shape of an old man's head in a nightcap, with saucy, black goggle eyes. The insolent creature smiled, it is true, very mockingly, and was capable, as it seemed, of any rude trick; but he was so placed as not to be able even to see the White Lady. Somewhat higher than the Sword, hung on the same wall a red-nosed man, with a mass of tangled hair upon his head. He had a wine-glass in his hand, and he looked straight at the beauty with winking, roguish eyes. But that fellow could not have bewitched the lady either; he was too commonplace and good-natured for such a thing. The old Sword had seen scores of such fellows in old times, when his knight was banqueting in some wayside inn, or carousing in some friar's cellar, after the conquest of a town. Revellers of those days were clad differently, but they were evidently birds of the same feather. The Sword even felt some special interest in the old toper--he seemed to be a clever fellow.

'Look here, old boy,' said the old warrior in a whisper to his neighbour, 'who do you think has bewitched the lady in the corner?'

'And why do you imagine the girl to be bewitched?' retorted the red-nosed one, in a hoarse, loud bass voice, making no scruples about the matter, though his companion evidently wished to speak in an undertone.

'H'm, h'm ... well, well!' said the old Sword; 'hold your peace! indeed you speak too loud.... One must be more discreet in delicate matters.... As to the spell, it is evident: have you not noticed the lady to be absolutely silent?'

'Well, what can she say if she has nothing to say? Ha! ha! ha!'

'What!' roared the Sword, and was about to teach the reveller politeness in his own way, but the latter checked his ardour with these words--

'Listen to what I am going to tell you, old fellow: if you do not intend to hear me quietly, why then do you ask my opinion?'

This remark seemed to the Sword to be reasonable, therefore he restrained himself and resumed his speech, though not without anger.

'You have drowned your reason in wine, that's all. How can it be that such a woman as this has nothing to say? Just look at her smile!'

'But perhaps she does not know anything but how to smile enigmatically.'

But such things the old warrior could no longer endure. Indeed, he would have made a cut at the toper's red nose had he not been taken down at that moment by the owner of the shop to show to some customer.

'Very good indeed,' said the latter; 'but it is not to my taste. I like this far better.' And the customer pointed to the White Beauty.

'Ha! ha! ha!... I should think you do,' laughed the shopman merrily. 'It is my luck she cannot speak, else she would have been married long ago, and I should have lost instead of gained by her.'

'Ah!' thought the old Sword, 'here is the sorcerer; I might have guessed it long ago. The owner of the shop is the mightiest here; he may do with us what he will. And that hideous man intends to sell that heavenly woman! But he shall smart for it.'

The old Sword broke loose from the nail, and, flashing dreadfully with his blade, struck the shopkeeper's shoulder. No doubt the man would have been wounded had the blade been sharp.

'Dear me,' cried the shopman, rubbing the injured spot, 'such a heavy old fool! How did those knights in old times fight with such cudgels?'

All of a sudden there arose a stir in the house. Along the passages and staircases people were heard running to and fro, shouting 'Fire! fire!' The owner of the old curiosity shop and his customer were rushing up and down about the hall, not knowing what to do. At last one of them seized a pot of withered geranium, and the other his rubbers, and both hurried out. The White Lady stood near one of the windows with her usual quiet smile, whilst on the window-sill there sat a pretty little naked bronze boy. For many long years he had carried on his back a basket, into which a candlestick was to be put. Though the boy, as I have said, was only a child, he knew very well what 'fire' meant: he knew it from the time when the bronze of which he was formed was melted in a blast furnace. A deadly fear overspread his lovely face, and in a tender, tinkling voice he addressed his pretty neighbour: 'Pray ... oh pray ... throw me down into the street.... The fall can do me no harm, I know ... but the fire will melt me.... Do, I beseech you; you have only to raise your arm.'

But the White Beauty remained silent and motionless. She continued to smile in a most winning and most promising manner, but made no gesture, uttered no sound.

The old Sword also knew what 'fire' meant. How many times had he witnessed in old times the conflagration of whole cities taken by assault! He saw how unhappy citizens and desperate artisans fled from their homes; how women sobbed and lamented when they saw the ruins, and when their little ones were slaughtered or burnt. All this the old Sword now remembered, and his steel blade ached at the thought: 'What will happen to the White Lady?'

The old curiosity shop was situated on the third floor, and the window, near which stood the beautiful woman who charmed the Sword, was only a few feet distant from the neighbouring roof. The old Sword collected all his strength, swung on his nail, and flung himself through the window, placing his handle on the sill and his point on the cornice of the neighbouring house.

'Queen of my soul, hasten! Pass along, treading upon me, and you will be safe,' so he rang out in a trembling voice. The beauty smiled in her enigmatic, winning manner, but did not utter a word or make a motion. 'Make haste, I beseech you!' rang once more the anxious Sword. 'As soon as the fire reaches our hall my handle will be burnt, I shall fall down, and your escape will be impossible.'

But these words made on the lady as little impression as his previous ones: she remained motionless and dumb, but smiling in a bewitching manner. Suddenly several firemen hurried in and began to seize everything that their eyes fell upon, and to fling it through the windows without any distinction. First went the sardonic, goggle-eyed old man on the cane, and, without injury, tumbled headlong down. Then came the red-nosed old toper, smiling as usual, his wine-glass still in his hand; he dashed against a broken stool, and the canvas on which he was painted was torn to pieces. Scores of solid and fragile things followed.... One of the firemen seized the Sword and threw him into the courtyard below. The jagged fighter made several somersaults in the air, and plunging into the earth stood upright. A few moments he shivered and made a dull sound. But one thought overpowered him now: 'What would be the fate of his lady?' All of a sudden he noticed something white falling from the window, and ... recognised his goddess: it was she! The old Sword uttered a groan.

'Oh, why did she not speak? Why did she not avail herself of his devotion? Why did she answer all his entreaties only by an enigmatic smile? O Heavens, why?' At this very moment the White Lady fell down upon the pavement and broke in two, just where men have a heart....

Many a time the old Sword had pierced men's hearts, and then their hot blood flowed along his blade. He therefore cast a shuddering and anxious look upon the fracture, expecting to see it bleed. He saw, however, nothing but stone; the whole beauty consisted of marble.... The marble was white as snow; it was irreproachably fair, but yet it was only marble, and nothing more.

'MY OWN'

(A Siberian Fairy Tale)

The banks of the Vagaï are beautiful--very beautiful[9]--in some places at least. Steep, almost overhanging, and high as the walls of a fortress bastion, they rise frowning above the river sternly; yet they are fair with the rich verdure of the forest that crowns their heights. This forest is of many kinds. The century-old fir-trees, with trunks that three men could not gird with outstretched arms, rise in straight, dark-red columns, so high that to look up at even the lowest branches you must throw your head back till your hat falls off; beside them the gray-barked aspens quiver in every leaf, as if frightened at the twisted, snaky black trunks of the bird-cherry--the tree that smells so sweet in early spring when the white blossoms cover it like a sheet of snow. The gentle rowan is not noticeable for its height; its feathery leaves are the only thing that could attract your attention. But wait till autumn comes; then it is hung all over with clusters of scarlet berries, and brightens up the forest. The mighty cedar, with its long, grand sweeps of feathery needles, towers up higher even than its comrade the fir; here and there beneath the trees is scattered about an undergrowth of young pines, almost branchless, like bristles or long sticks standing up out of the earth. But the commonest trees in this forest are certainly silver birches. The trunks of these birches stand out sometimes straight and slender, with delicate heads of foliage, looking like cadets in their white shirts; sometimes gnarled, branchy, knotted, with the air of a burly peasant, rugged with labour.

[9] The _Vagaï_ is one of the largest tributaries of _Irtýsh_, a mighty stream, which flows into one of the most gigantic rivers of Siberia, the Obi.

Underneath, at the base of all these tree-trunks, so different in thickness, height, and colour, all the ground is covered with masses of bright flowers, and a carpet of grass that buries you waist-deep when you walk. And the longer you look upon this forest scene the more varied, the more exquisite, it appears to you. There are so many beautiful shades of green--pale and delicate on the birch-trees, dark on the cedars, almost black on the _pikhta_. Here the trees cluster together on the river-bank, pressing one against the other, forming an impassable barrier,--there they draw back, as if wearied of following the course of the river, and leave a wide, open space, where you can see the edge of the nearest bank, and the barren precipice of the opposite one, also crowned with glorious green forest; and if you advance to the edge you can see, far below, the torrent itself, swift and mighty.

Ah yes, the Vagaï is beautiful! And not only is it beautiful, but it is a merry life there--in any case it is a merry life for the birds who live there. So many joys are theirs! The woodpeckers can find in the bark of the trees (especially the old stumps of fallen trees) fat caterpillars and beetles; for the snipe and woodcocks there are endless strawberries, bilberries, cranberries, thick clumps of wild oats and other edible grasses. The great cones, with their juicy nuts, cluster on the branches of the pines and giant cedars, like candles on a Christmas-tree, then late in autumn they fall to the ground. The clear, fresh water of the Vagaï seems to call you to bathe and drink. And then the bright sunshine, the transparent, fragrant air, the green carpet of the forest, the joyous company of comrades, with whom one can sing, chirp, hop, dart about, and fly like an arrow on light wings. What more can heart desire? Living such a life, should one not rejoice in this bright world, fling away all envy and malice, and share together with one's fellow-creatures all the delights which our common mother, Nature, gives?

So thought all the birds of the forest tract we are speaking of, and so they lived. Early, very early, in the morning, when the first scarlet flush shone in the sky to herald the golden sunbeams, one little bird would wake up and open its eyes, and there beside it another would have begun fluttering its wings, drinking the bright dewdrops from the leaves, pecking seeds from the grasses. Then the first bird would look at its friend, thinking, 'There's plenty for all;' and it, too, would begin chirruping, delighted to have a companion with whom to share both its labour and its rest. And both together would dart off and fly to the Vagaï to bathe. So the little birds lived happily, neither quarrelling nor disagreeing, helping one another in their work and dangers, and sharing together all that the bright world gave them.

But this way of living and thinking did not suit a certain broad-beaked, ponderous cedar-crow,[10] who had taken up her abode in a huge cedar.

[10] A rather large brown bird, with white spots, belonging to the crow family. Its Latin name is _Nucifraga Caryocatœ_.

This cedar stood apart in a glade, and the Cedar-crow liked it just on account of its separate position.

'I will settle here; this shall be _my_ estate. I don't want any one else's property, and no one shall touch _mine_! It's comfortable and private and nice!' The clumsy bird flew all round the cedar, and, being satisfied with it, settled there.

The Cedar-crow stopped there a day, two days ... the other birds darted past, chirping, flying races, playing with one another, rejoicing together in the good gifts of their mother-earth, the bright sun, and the Vagaï, and the delights of companionship; but the thick-billed Cedar-crow dared not leave her tree; there she sat watching that no other bird should touch her private nuts. When a woodcock did but pass, she flew to him in anxiety, crying out: 'Go away!--go away! There's nothing here for you; go back where you came from! I don't touch your things; you let _mine_ alone.'

'But do you suppose the rest of the forest is only _ours_?' said the Woodcock. 'You can have them too; of course any one may take as much as they want. There's enough for every one.'

'Yes, I dare say. _You_ can do as you like. But _I_ feel safer when I have something of my _own_.'

'Why, you foolish one!' exclaimed a thrush, which had flown up to them, 'we always live in whole companies--thousands together--and never cut up things into "mine" and "thine"; and yet no harm happens to us.'

'Yes; so long as there is plenty for all, but afterwards there's no saying what will happen,' thought the Cedar-crow, though she did not say so aloud. 'If the land is divided between all of us, how much will each one have? Now I've got the whole of this huge cedar to myself; it will last my time, and I can leave it to my children and grandchildren; there will be more for them than for your fledglings....'

'You're just gone silly with greediness,' said the other birds, and flew away, chirruping and darting after one another in the air. But the Cedar-crow, the forest landowner, seeing that she was alone, pulled a cone from her cedar, and began picking out the nuts. She ate as much as she could, and then returned to the work of guarding her estate. She sat and looked about her, and occasionally flew round the tree, constantly afraid that some one was touching her property.

The time for nest-building came. All the birds paired and got to work: one carried a feather, another a straw; each one wove in its contribution properly; then they would hop about, chirp to one another, and fly off together to fetch more material.

The Cedar-crow became more anxious than ever. 'There!' she thought; 'they will lay eggs and hatch new fledglings, and they, too, will all want to eat and drink; they will simply ravage my cedar. I shall have nothing left!'

She even left off going down to the Vagaï to drink. Yet she was tormented with thirst: her tongue hung out; her eyes distended; she could hardly breathe; and still she dared not leave her tree. She endured it till nightfall. At night all the birds settled down to rest sweetly after their day's work; only here and there an owl with great round eyes would flit past. But the Cedar-crow could not go to sleep; she had to fly to the river and drink; and this misery was not only once--at dawn to-morrow it would begin again!

At last the envious bird could bear it no longer. Clearly she could not manage alone. She began thinking how to get out of the difficulty. It occurred to her that it might be better to take another cedar-crow into partnership with her, and build a nest; certainly it would be another mouth to feed, but then the two of them together could guard their property, and not lose a single cone. And even if they had fledglings, it would still be better than now: in the first place, she would feel safer; in the second place, with so many to keep watch, not a single nut would be lost, let alone a cone. And the cedar was very big; it would be enough for five, even ten families.

The Cedar-crow polished her beak, pecked off a cone, glancing about her as she did so, flew round the cedar, and settled herself to look out for a mate. There, just opposite her, on a neighbouring fir-tree, sat another cedar-crow, large and heavy, with a great strong beak. It sat looking at the cedar; evidently it wanted some nuts.

The forest landowner flew across to it, and began to explain: 'This is my estate; no one has a right to touch it; but, if you like, I will take you into companionship, if you will help me to guard our cedar from intruders.' The male looked at the cedar-tree, and saw that it was a fine one. 'You won't get such a cedar every day.'

'All right,' said he; 'if one lets every one in to share in God's blessings one will just starve. I've seen enough of these fools that do nothing and lay by nothing: just fly in coveys, peck everything bare, and there's not a thing left. I myself was just looking for a good cedar, to take possession of it, and let no one come near.'

They paired, and set to work to build their nest; one would bring the materials, or go down to drink, while the other guarded the estate.

Well, some time passed, and behold their little fledglings peeped out of the nest. The old Cedar-crows were more anxious than ever about their property; formerly they had only watched over the cones, now they let no one so much as fly past the cedar-tree.

But how were they to prevent the birds from ever flying past, when forests and meadows and water alike swarm with them? The greedy birds drove away their comrades day after day and the whole day long; by the evening they could hardly move their wings for weariness. At last they got worn out. What were they to do? They thought and thought, and at last an idea struck them.

The male Cedar-crow flew to the Plover. 'Call a meeting of all the birds,' said he; 'on business.'

'What business?' asked the Plover.

'Well, that doesn't matter. Important business.'

'But still, I must know why to call the birds to a meeting; may be you want to disturb them for some trifle?'

'Not for a trifle at all; we want to give up our claim to the forest.'

'How do you mean "Give up your claim"?'

'Why, simply to give it up! We are worried out of our lives. And all because every one considers that we are their comrades, and that they can poke their beaks into our place as if it were their own.'

The Plover saw that there was something very strange, and not only strange, but dismal. The more he thought of it, the worse it seemed to him. However, there was nothing for it but to call a council. 'All right,' he said; 'come again at this time to-morrow.'

The next day the Plover flew over fields, pastures, and forests, wailing more mournfully than ever: 'Pity! Pity! Pity!...'

The birds, wondering at the melancholy cry, flew down in countless numbers to the Vagaï; on all sides resounded chirruping and twittering. Here the mellow call of the cuckoo predominated; there the elaborate whistle of the goldhammer. The Cedar-crow, the forest landowner, was there waiting. She came forward and made her speech--

'It is a custom among you, respected birds, to live together and hold everything in common. That is your own affair; but we cannot live so. We have children, and are bound to think of them and have something to leave them. Among you every one snatches the food from his neighbour's beak, and robs his neighbour without any question; and we find that all this ends in nothing but anxiety. We don't want things that belong to others, and we feel it hard when others give us no peace. So we have resolved to announce to you that we want no part in your communal forest, and will not touch it; we will not take from it a single seed or stalk; but you, on your side, agree together that no one shall peck our nuts, or perch on our cedar, or fly across our glade. This is our request to you, respected birds.'

When the Cedar-crow left off speaking there was silence: the birds sat with their bills wide open, and could not utter a word for amazement.

The first to recover himself was a starling. 'Why--you--idiot!' he cried. 'Think yourself what a fool you are! All the wide world is here before you, and you want to give it up for one little glade!'

'Oh, the world! The world is not _mine_--it's _every one's_--not much of it will fall to my share; it's all very well to be so sure! but the cedar, if it is small, at least it's _mine_!' That is what the Cedar-crow thought; but aloud she only said: 'Well, if you think it better to possess the whole world in common than one little glade separately, what is there to argue about? The world remains to you, so it must be a good bargain for you; and there's nothing more to be said. Then give us our glade, leave us in peace, and that is all we ask.'

'You foolish creature!' exclaimed the other birds; 'he spoke for your advantage; of course, your glade will be no loss to us; but it's piteous to see a creature so blind! He only wanted to bring you to your senses.'

'You must have a lot of good advice to spare if you can give away so much of it without being asked,' replied the Cedar-crow, polishing her broad beak.

Seeing that the Cedar-crow was hopelessly wrong-headed, the birds talked the matter over, and decided that she and her mate should be left in undisturbed possession of their cedar glade, and that no one should approach within twenty fathoms of it.

The Cedar-crows were delighted. Now, they thought, at last we shall be at peace! And so they were. No one ever came near; they had no longer any need to guard their cedar, or to do anything but eat, drink, and sleep. The rest of their time they spent in gazing at one another, and comparing who had the longest beak. Once it chanced that a nightingale, coming from a far country to seek her lost mate (he had been trapped by bird-catchers), flew to the cedar. She did not know of the agreement among the birds of the Vagaï concerning the cedar glade, and she flew into it. The Cedar-crows were so bored that they were almost glad to see her! They flew out, however, and entered into a polite explanation.

'You probably do not know of the agreement concerning this glade. No one has the right to fly within twenty fathoms of it, because it is _ours_. We have renounced our claim to all the rest of the forest, and do not take a single seed or stalk from it; but this glade belongs to us.'

'Whatever is that for?' asked the Nightingale, in amazement. 'Why, supposing there's a bad harvest on your cedar, what will become of you then?'

It was the first time that such a question had been put to the Cedar-crows, and they did not know what to answer.

'A bad harvest!' Indeed it was possible. It often happens that in one place the harvest fails, and close by, or very near, such a quantity ripens that it goes to waste. But the young birds reassured their parents: on that cedar they had been hatched, and had grown up; they had always lived upon its fruits; they had always seen it the same--mighty and burdened with cones--could they imagine it different?

'A bad harvest! What do you mean?' they cried in chorus. 'The harvest cannot fail on our cedar!'

'Of course it can't!' echoed the parent birds in delight.

The Nightingale shook her little gray head, but made no further comment.

'Then it is forbidden to fly here?' she said. 'I beg your pardon, I did not know.'

'Oh, we are not angry; indeed, as you are on a journey, we shall be glad to offer you some refreshment,' replied the female Cedar-crow, glancing at her mate; and she laid before the Nightingale a single nut.

'Thank you,' said the Nightingale, and flew away without touching the nut.

The Cedar-crows settled down again to their ordinary life, and there is no saying how long they would have gone on in the same way if a runaway tramp had not happened to make a bonfire in the _taïgá_.[11] It was a long time since he had enjoyed a hot drink, and he was thirsty. He made some tea, drank it, and was just going to start on again, when he heard bells, then a rustling sound and footsteps. The poor fellow was terrified: 'The _Ispravnik_!'[12] he thought. 'I shall be caught!' He rushed into the thicket, not stopping even to scatter the burning brands or stamp out the embers. In the meantime a light wind rose, the embers glowed, the dry pine-needles caught fire, and soon the flames were creeping on from one fallen trunk to another--farther and farther, wider and wider, licking the trees, curling round whole thickets--and the _taïgá_ was on fire. That is a common thing in Siberia.

[11] Virgin forest in Siberia.

[12] A police-officer, acting as chief of the district.

For some time the Cedar-crows had noticed that the air was of a milky colour. For some time the sun had been dull-red by day, and by night they could see a far-off crimson glare in the sky. Now the smell of burning was in the air, and still the Cedar-crows could not believe that their estate was in danger of fire. It disturbed them far more that innumerable birds began flying past their glade to the Vagaï; the beasts, too, hurrying to the river, ran straight by the cedar.... Soon it grew difficult to breathe, yet still the Cedar-crows could not bear to part from their estate; they still dreaded lest some other birds or beasts might take possession of their glade. At last, though, they could bear it no longer; they were forced to go. But when, after all, they made up their minds to leave the cedar, it was too late. The fire attacked their glade from all sides at once, and when they attempted to fly upwards they dropped, stifled with smoke, on to the ground. The cool, green grass refreshed them, and, in desperation, they struggled again to reach the river. But all around them rose terrible fiery pillars, and the unhappy birds, scorched and half dead, sank again to the ground, and rose no more.

Presently rain began to pour in torrents, and put out the fire within a few yards of the glade. That glade was now a dismal scene of ruin: the tall grass was burnt brown, the mighty cedar was a charred and naked corpse. All around stood the trees--aspens, birches, limes, and bird-cherries--burnt to skeletons, or with dead and shrivelled leaves hanging from them here and there. Mournfully they raised their barren branches towards the heavens, as though praying for mercy; and thus, with lifted hands, they perished.

But beyond that bare skeleton thicket stood in the distance the fresh and untouched forest. The female Cedar-crow, lying helpless on the ground, gazed upon it despairingly. Beside her lay her fledgling--the only one left alive. He was feebly fluttering his scorched wings and uttering piteous cries.

'Oh, if only some of the birds would come to us!' thought the unhappy mother; 'surely they would have pity on my child, and would carry him down to the waterside and feed him. He would recover there; he would not die of hunger and thirst!...'

But no one came near the glade. All the birds remembered the general agreement: not to disturb the Cedar-crows in their seclusion, and not to approach within twenty fathoms of their estate. And not one of the birds knew what had happened to the Cedar-crow family.

When the bright sun rose next morning no one of that family saw it--they were all dead....

Meanwhile the other birds, leaving the fire-ravaged places for other parts of the forest that were still fresh and green, rejoiced as formerly in the fair world, sharing everything together; and far along the clear Vagaï the air was filled with their joyous and friendly twittering.

THE TALE ABOUT HOW ALL THESE TALES CAME TO LIGHT

In our times, but not in this country, there lived a little girl, with a pair of brown eyes that shone like two big radiant stars. Every time that she looked with those eyes on her father or her mother, and a sweet smile beamed on her countenance, the father's and mother's souls brightened, and it seemed to them as if music, which nobody heard except themselves, resounded in their hearts.

Very often on such occasions the father took his beloved girl on his lap, kissed her tenderly, and asked what she would like.

'I should like you to tell me a fairy tale,' invariably answered the little girl, pressing her rosy face to her father's breast.

'That is in our hands. We can afford that,' answered her father.

Then he tried to recall what he had ever read or heard from his grandmother or other old folk, and related some story, while the little girl listened attentively. Her big eyes became still larger; they beamed like a pair of evening stars, and she now and then slightly and slowly nodded, taking to heart everything that happened in the story. If her father told of some evil, unjust person, she exclaimed: 'I do not like him!' But if the story ran about some one kind-hearted and good, she was very glad of it, and said: 'That is good!'

And again it was as if beautiful music resounded in her father's soul. He saw that his little one was grieved with other people's grievances and rejoiced in other people's happiness. He saw how she pondered over what he said, and he thought of the time when they, the father and mother, will grow old, while their little one will become a grown-up girl. They will live together, as to-day, in mutual love and thorough friendship. Yet then it will be she, their sweet daughter, that will take care of them and feed them, as they now take care of her and feed her. And the father again pressed his lips on his beloved pet's head.

As for the mother, she was never weary of caressing her child and doing everything for her. But as she had to take care also of the father and of our girl's baby-sister, who had a pair of eyes like two little suns, she very often was quite exhausted towards the close of the day. Therefore when the little girl with starlike eyes went to bed, and, clasping her mother by the neck with both her hands, asked her to tell some fairy tale, her mother could not recall any.... Still the little girl repeated her request again and again....

Then the father said to the mother she should go and rest, while he sat down at the child's bedside and tried to narrate something.

At last there came a day when all the stories he ever knew were at an end, while the little girl still entreated for one. The father looked in his girl's big, starlike eyes and saw that she could not sleep. He looked also at the mother, who was worried out of her senses by daily work; and now sat mending the baby's socks. It was evident some story ought to be told. But what story? What about?

The father looked around. A china cup was standing on the table. It was half-broken, and he could not help thinking that it had had a trying life. It had surely had its story. Well, what kind of a story was it?

And after having pondered a little, the father told to his girl the story of the cup, as he imagined it, and as you have found it in this very little book.

When he finished the little girl rose in her bed, with her starlike eyes shining more than usual, and asked: 'Where did you get that story, father? Did you read it somewhere?'

'No; I just told it out of my head.'

Then the little girl clasped her little hands around her father's neck, kissed him most enthusiastically, and seemed to be very happy.

Since that time father heard only too often the little girl ask him: 'Father, do tell me some tale of your own.'

And so he did. But as he repeated his stories again and again he now and then altered them, as he could not remember everything as he told it the first time. And if the alterations were happy, the little girl was pleased, but if he omitted anything, she said: 'You told it differently the other day,' and would not be happy until he recalled all the exact words and details of his best narrative.

Then it became clear that the father should write his stories down. After having written some new story he now read it to the girl with a pair of stars instead of eyes, and sometimes she most emphatically objected to some turn of the story.

'You wrote it wrongly,' she said on such occasions; 'you must alter it thus and thus.'

And indeed the father altered until she said it was all right.

One morning a little boy came to visit our little girl, his great friend. They ran about and played together all the forenoon; but in the afternoon, when her father lay down on a couch to take a moment's rest, he was struck by the general stillness which was reigning in the house. To tell you the truth, the boy was a real mischievous monkey, and there was little hope to have any peace in the house as long as he was in it. Still, the fact was that everything was quiet, and only in the neighbouring room the star-eyed girl's voice sounded in an even, moderate tone.

The father got up, and went on tiptoe to the next room to look what all this meant. He saw his little girl sitting on a footstool; her visitor was beside her on a box, and was all attention.

... 'A-a-a! yawned the Little Old Man, ...' related the little hostess, showing to the boy how the old man did yawn....

At this moment she perceived her father on the threshold.

'I am telling him your fairy tale about the little old men, you know,' she said to her father, and then there was a pause, with a lingering smile on her face.

'Well, go on,' said the boy, pulling her by the sleeve.

The father returned to his couch, and there was a smile on his face too. He saw clearly that there was something in his stories which made little folk breathe with indignation, compassion, or joy, when they heard them. He well knew what it was. He put a good deal of his soul into his tales, and this soul, coming into contact with those little souls of his readers, made them bound with delight, or long for redress of some injustice. Was it not a joy for him too? And if the little girl with a pair of stars instead of eyes, and the boy, her friend, found pleasure in his fairy tales, should not the other children have an opportunity to try the same pleasure? Why should he not print his stories?

Thus he decided to print them. He sent them into a printing-office, and before long a little volume came out of the press in many copies. The little girl with starlike eyes read and re-read the book. Her little friends, with blue, black, brown, or gray eyes, read and re-read it. And when, after all that reading and all the chatter about it, bright sparks of delight and animation appeared in those eyes, these sparks found their way into his heart and warmed it up, and he too felt happy.

Now, I did not tell you that all this happened in Russia, a far-away country, and that when the man who wrote the stories came afterwards to England, together with his daughter, he was sorry to find that he had left all those children's sparkling eyes, shining with emotion when reading his tales, behind.

But then he was struck by the thought that in England there were as many little souls and hearts as in Russia, nay, he has had already some friends among these little souls both in England and in America; and thus, perhaps, if he put his stories into English, he might see as many smiling faces and radiant eyes after the book was read as he did in his native country? He decided to try at once, and now here is the volume before you. We will see whether the man was right. He would like to hear something about it from you.

THE END

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_