 CHAPTER X. The Stolen Turnips, the Magic Tablecloth, the Sneezing Goat, and the Wooden Whistle. This is the story which old Peter used to tell whenever either Vanya or Marusia was cross. This did not often happen, but it would be no use to pretend that it never happened at all. Sometimes it was Vanya who scolded Marusia, and sometimes it was Marusia who scolded Vanya. Sometimes there were two scoldings going on at once, and old Peter did not like Crossness in the hut, whoever did the scolding. He said it spoiled his tobacco and put a sour taste in the tea. And of course when the children remembered that they were spoiling their grandfather's tea and tobacco they stopped just as quickly as they could, unless their tongues had run right away with them, which happens sometimes you know, even to grown-up people. This story used to be told in two ways. It was either the tale of an old man who was bothered by a cross-old woman, or the tale of an old woman who was bothered by a cross-old man. And the moment old Peter began the story both children would ask at once, which is the cross one? For then they would know which of them old Peter thought was in the wrong. This time it's the old woman, said their grandfather, but as like as not it will be the old man next. And then any quarreling there was came to an end, and was forgotten before the end of the story. This is the story. An old man and an old woman lived in a little wooden house. All round the house there was a garden, crammed with flowers and potatoes and beet-roots and cabbages. And in one corner of the house there was a narrow wooden stairway which went up and up, twisting and twisting, into a high tower. In the top of the tower was a dove-coat, and on the top of the dove-coat was a flat roof. Now the old woman was never content with the doings of the old man. She scolded all day, and she scolded all night. If there was too much rain it was the old man's fault. And if there was a drought and all green things were parched for lack of water, well, the old man was to blame for not altering the weather. And though he was old and tired it was all the same to her how much work she put on his shoulders. The garden was full. There was no room in it at all, not even for a single pea, and all of a sudden the old woman sets her heart on growing turnips. But there is no room in the garden, says the old man. Sew them on top of the dove-coat, says the old woman. But there is no earth there. Carry earth up and put it there, says she. So the old man labored up and down with his tired old bones, and covered the top of the dove-coat with good black earth. He could only take up a very little at a time, because he was old and weak and because the stairs were so narrow and dangerous that he had to hold on with both hands and carry the earth in a bag which he held in his teeth. His teeth were strong enough because he had been biting crusts all his life. The old woman left him nothing else, for she took all the crumb for herself. The old man did his best, and by evening the top of the dove-coat was covered with earth, and he had sewn it with turnip-seed. Next day and the day after that and every day the old woman scolded the old man till he went up to the dove-coat to see how those turnip-seeds were getting on. Are they ready to eat yet? They are not ready to eat. Is the green sprouting? The green is sprouting. And at last there came a day when the old man came down from the dove-coat and said, The turnips are doing finally. Quite big they are getting. But all the best ones have been stolen away. Stolen away cried the old woman, shaking with rage. And have you lived all these years and not learned how to keep thieves from a turnip-bed on the top of a dove-coat, on the top of a tower, on the top of a house? Out with you! And don't you dare to come back till you have caught the thieves. The old man did not dare to tell her that the door had been bolted, although he knew it had, because he had bolted it himself. He hurried away out of the house more because he wanted to get out of earshot of her scolding than because he had any hope of finding the thieves. They may be birds, thinks he, or the little brown squirrels. Who else could climb so high without using the stairs? And how is an old man like me to get hold of them, flying through the tops of the high trees and running up and down the branches? And so he wandered away without his dinner into the deep forest. But God is good to old men. Hasn't he given me two little pigeons, who nearly always are as merry as all little pigeons should be? And God led the old man through the forest, though the old man thought he was just wandering on, trying to lose himself and forget the scolding voice of the old woman. And after he had walked a long way through the dark green forest, he saw a little hut standing under the pine trees. There was no smoke coming from the chimney, but there was such a chattering in the hut you could hear it far away. It was like coming near a rookery at evening, or disturbing a lot of starlings. And as the old man came slowly nearer to the hut, he thought he saw little faces looking at him through the window and peeping through the door. He could not be sure because they were gone so quickly. And all the time the chattering went on louder and louder till the old man nearly put his hands to his ears. And then suddenly the chattering stopped. There was not a sound. No noise at all. The old man stood still. A squirrel dropped a fur cone close by and the old man was startled by the fall of it because everything else was so quiet. Whatever there is in the hut it won't be worse than the old woman, says the old man to himself, so he makes the sign of the Holy Cross and steps up to the little hut and takes a look through the door. There was no one to be seen. You would have thought the hut was empty. The old man took a step inside, bending under the little low door. Still he could see nobody, only a great heap of rags and blankets on the sleeping-place on the top of the stove. The hut was as clean as if it had only that minute been swept by Marusia herself, but in the middle of the floor there was a scrap of green leaf flying, and the old man knew in a moment that it was a scrap of green leaf from the top of a young turnip. And while the old man looked at it, the heap of blankets and rugs on the stove moved, first in one place and then in another. Then there was a little laugh, then another, and suddenly there was a great stir in the blankets and they were all thrown back helter-skelter, and there were dozens and dozens of little queer children laughing and laughing and laughing and looking at the old man. And every child had a little turnip and showed it to the old man and laughed. Just in the door of the stove flew open and outtumbled more of the little queer children, dozens and dozens of them. The more they came tumbling out into the hut, the more there seemed to be chattering in the stove and squeezing to get out one over the top of another. The noise of chattering and laughing would have made your head spin, and every one of the children out of the stove had a little turnip like the others, and waved it about and showed it to the old man and laughed like anything. Ho! says the old man. So you are the thieves who have stole the turnips from the top of the dove-coat? Yes, cried the children, and the chatter rattled as fast as hailstones on the roof. Yes, yes, yes, we stole the turnips. How did you get on to the top of the dove-coat when the door into the house was bolted and fast? At that the children all burst out laughing and did not answer a word. Laugh you may, said the old man, but it is I who get the scolding when the turnips fly away in the night. Oh, never mind, never mind, cried the children, we'll pay for the turnips. How can you pay for them, asked the old man, you have got nothing to pay with. All the children chattered together and looked at the old man and smiled, then one of them said to the old man, are you hungry, grandfather? Hungry, says the old man, why yes, of course I am, my dear. I've been looking for you all day, and I had to start without my dinner. If you are hungry, open the cupboard behind you. The old man opened the cupboard. Take out the tablecloth. The old man took out the tablecloth. Spread it on the table. The old man spread the tablecloth on the table. Now, shouted the children, chattering like a thousand nests full of young birds, we'll all sit down and have dinner. They pulled out the benches and gave the old man a chair at one end, and all crowded round the table, ready to begin. But there's no food, said the old man. How they laughed. Grandfather, one of them stings out from the other end of the table. You just tell the tablecloth to turn inside out. How, says he. Tell the tablecloth to turn inside out. That's easy enough. Well, there's no harm in doing that, thinks the old man. So he says to the tablecloth as firmly as he could. Now then, you, tablecloth, turn inside out. The tablecloth holed itself up into the air and rolled itself this way and that, as if it were in a whirlwind, and then suddenly laid itself flat on the table again. And somehow or other it had covered itself with dishes and plates and wooden spoons with pictures on them and bowls of soup and mushrooms and kasha and meat and cakes and fish and ducks and everything else you could think of. Ready for the best dinner in the world. The chattering and laughing stopped, and the old man and those dozens and dozens of little queer children set to work and ate everything on the table. Which of you washes the dishes, asked the old man when they had all done? The children laughed. Tell the tablecloth to turn outside in. The tablecloth, says the old man, turned outside in. Up jumped the tablecloth with all the empty dishes and dirty plates and spoons, whirled itself this way and that in the air, and suddenly spread itself out flat again on the table as clean and white as when it was taken out of the cupboard. There was not a dish or a bowl or a spoon or a plate or a knife to be seen. No, not even a crumb. That's a good tablecloth, says the old man. See here, grandfather, shout at the children, you take the tablecloth along with you and say no more about those turnips. Well, I'm content with that, says the old man, and he folded up the tablecloth very carefully and put it away inside his shirt and said he must be going. Good-bye, says he, and thank you for the dinner and the tablecloth. Good-bye, say they, and thank you for the turnips. The old man made his way home, singing through the forest in his creaky old voice until he came near the little wooden house where he lived with the old woman. As soon as he came near there he slipped along like any mouse, and as soon as he put his head inside the door the old woman began, Have you found the thieves, you old fool? I found the thieves. Who are they? They were a whole crowd of little queer children. Have you given them a beating they'll remember? No, I have not. What? What? Bring them to me, and I'll teach them to steal my turnips. I haven't got them. What have you done with them? I had dinner with them. Well, at that the old woman flew into such a rage she could hardly speak. That speak she did, yes, and shout, too, and scream, and it was all the old man could do not to run away out of the cottage. But he stood still and listened and thought of something else. And when she had done he said, They paid for the turnips. Paid for the turnips, scolded the old woman. A lot of children. What did they give you? Mushrooms. We can get them without losing our turnips. They gave me a tablecloth, said the old man. It is a very good tablecloth. He pulled it out of his shirt and spread it on the table. And as quickly as he could, before she began again, he said, Tablecloth, turn inside out. The old woman stopped short just when she was taking breath of scold with, when the tablecloth jumped up and danced in the air and settled on the table again covered with things to eat and to drink. She smelt the meat, took a spoonful of the soup, and tried all the other dishes. Look at all the washing up it will mean, says she. Tablecloth, turn outside in, says the old man. And there was a whirl of white cloth and dishes and everything else, and then the tablecloth spread itself out on the table as clean as ever you could wish. That's not a bad tablecloth, says the old woman. But of course they owed me something for stealing all those turnips. The old man said nothing. He was very tired. And he just laid down and went to sleep. As soon as he was asleep the old woman took the tablecloth and hid it away in an iron chest and put a tablecloth of her own in its place. They were my turnips, says she. And I don't see why he should have a share in the tablecloth. He's had a meal from it once at my expense. And once is enough. Then she lay down and went to sleep, grumbling to herself even in her dreams. Early in the morning the old woman woke the old man and told him to go up to the dove-caught and see how those turnips were getting on. He got up and rubbed his eyes. When he saw the tablecloth on the table the wish came to him to have a bite of food to begin the day with. So he stopped in the middle of putting on his shirt and called to the tablecloth, Tablecloth, turn inside out. Nothing happened. Why should anything happen? It was not the same tablecloth. The old man told the old woman, You should have made a good feast yesterday, says he. For the tablecloth is no good any more. That is, it's no good that way. It's like any ordinary tablecloth. Most tablecloths are, says the old woman. But what are you dawdling about? Up you go and have a look at those turnips. The old man went climbing up the narrow twisting stairs. He held on with both hands for fear of falling because they were so steep. He climbed to the top of the house, to the top of the tower, to the top of the dove-caught and looked at the turnips. He looked at the turnips and he counted the turnips. And then he came slowly down the stairs again, wondering what the old woman would say to him. Well, says the old woman in her sharp voice, are they doing nicely? Because if not I know whose fault it is. They are doing finally, said the old man, but some of them have gone. Indeed, quite a lot of them have been stolen away. Stolen away, screamed the old woman. How dare you stand there and tell me that! Didn't you find the thieves yesterday? Go and find those children again and take a stick with you, and don't show yourself here till you can tell me that they won't steal again in a hurry. Let me have a bite to eat, begs the old man. It's a long way to go on an empty stomach. Not a mouthful, yells the old woman, off with you, letting my turnips be stolen every night and then talking to me about bites of food. So the old man went off again without his dinner and hobbled away into the forest as quickly as he could to get out of earshot of the old woman's scolding tongue. As soon as he was out of sight the old woman stopped screaming after him and went into the house and opened the iron chest and took out the tablecloth the children had given the old man and laid it on the table instead of her own. She told it to turn inside out and up it flew and whirled about and flopped down flat again, all covered with good things. She ate as much as she could hold. Then she told the tablecloth to turn outside in and folded it up and hid it away again in the iron chest. Meanwhile the old man tightened his belt because he was so hungry. He hobbled along to the green forest till he came to the little hut standing under the pine trees. There was no smoke coming from the chimney but there was such a chattering you would have thought that all the vanyas and marusias in holy Russia were talking to each other inside. He had no sooner come inside of the hut than the dozens and dozens of little queer children came pouring out of the door to meet him and every single one of them had a turnip and showed it to the old man and laughed and laughed as if it were the best joke in the world. I knew it was you, said the old man. Of course it was us, cried the children. We stole the turnips. But how did you get to the top of the dovecoat when the door into the house was bolted and fast? The children laughed and laughed and did not answer a word. Laugh you may, says the old man, but it is I who get the scolding when the turnips fly away in the night. Never mind, never mind, cried the children, will pay for the turnips. All very well, says the old man, but that tablecloth of yours it was fine yesterday but this morning it would not give me even a glass of tea and a hunk of black bread. At that the faces of the little queer children were troubled and grave. For a moment or two they all chattered together and took no notice of the old man. Then one of them said, Well, this time we'll give you something better. We'll give you a goat. A goat, says the old man. A goat with a cold in its head, said the children, and they crowded round him and took him behind the hut, where there was a grey goat with a long beard cropping the short grass. It's a good enough goat, says the old man. I don't see anything wrong with him. It's better than that, cried the children. You tell it to sneeze. The old man thought the children might be laughing at him, but he did not care, and he remembered the tablecloth. So he took off his hat and bowed to the goat. Sneeze goat, says he. And instantly the goat started sneezing as if it would shake itself to pieces, and as it sneezed good gold pieces flew from it in all directions till the ground was thick with them. That's enough, said the children hurriedly. Tell them to stop, for all this gold is no use to us and it's such a bother having to sweep it away. Stop sneezing, goat, says the old man. And the goat stopped sneezing and stood there, panting and out of breath in the middle of the sea of gold pieces. The children began kicking the gold pieces about, spreading them by walking through them as if they were dead leaves. My old father used to say that those gold pieces are lying about still for anybody to pick up. But I doubt if he knew just where to look for them, or he would have had better clothes on his back and a little more food on the table. But who knows, some day we may come upon that little hut somewhere in the forest, and then we shall know what to look for. The children laughed and chattered and kicked the gold pieces this way and that into the green bushes. Then they brought the old man into the hut and gave him a bowl of kasha to eat because he had no dinner. There was no magic about the kasha, but it was good enough kasha for all that, and hunger made it better. When the old man had finished the kasha and drunk a glass of tea and smoked a little pipe, he got up and made a low bow and thanked the children. And the children tied a rope to the goat and sent the old man home with it. He hobbled away through the forest, and as he went he looked back, and there were the little queer children, all dancing together, and he heard them chattering and shouting, Who stole the turnips? We stole the turnips! Who paid for the turnips? We paid for the turnips! Who stole the tablecloth? Who will pay for the tablecloth? Who will steal turnips again? We will steal turnips again! But the old man was too pleased with the goat to give much heed to what they said, and he hobbled home through the green forest as fast as he could, with the goat trotting and walking behind him, pulling leaves off the bushes to chew as they hurried along. The old woman was waiting in the doorway of the house. She was still as angry as ever. Have you beaten the children? She screamed. Have you beaten the children for stealing my good turnips? No, said the old man. They paid for the turnips. What did they pay? They gave me this goat. That skinny old goat? I have three already, and the worst of them is better than that. It has a cold in the head, says the old man. Worse than ever, screams the old woman. Wait a minute, says the old man, as quickly as he could to stop her scolding, sneeze goat. And the goat began to shake itself almost to bits, sneezing and sneezing and sneezing. The good gold pieces flew always at once, and the old woman threw herself after the gold pieces, picking them up like an old hen picking up corn. As fast as she picked them up, more gold pieces came showering down on her like heavy gold hail, beating her on her head and her hands as she grabbed after those that had fallen already. Stop sneezing, goat, says the old man. And the goat stood there tired and panting, trying to get its breath, but the old woman did not look up till she had gathered every one of the gold pieces. When she did look up, she said, there's no supper for you. I've had supper already. The old man said nothing. He tied up the goat to the doorpost of the house where it could eat the green grass. Then he went into the house and lay down and fell asleep at once, because he was an old man and had done a lot of walking. As soon as he was asleep the old woman untied the goat and took it away and hid it in the bushes, and tied up one of her own goats instead. They were my turnips, says she to herself, and I don't see why he should have a share in the gold. Then she went in and lay down grumbling to herself. Early in the morning she woke the old man. Get up, you lazy fellow, says she. You would lie all day and let all the thieves in the world come in and steal my turnips? Up with you to the dove-coat and see how my turnips are getting on. The old man got up and rubbed his eyes and climbed up the rickety stairs, creak, creak, creak, holding on with both hands till he came to the top of the house, to the top of the tower, to the top of the dove-coat, and looked at the turnips. He was afraid to come down, for there were hardly any turnips left at all. And when he did come down the scolding the old woman gave him was worse than the other two scoldings rolled into one. She was so angry that she shook like a rag in the high wind, and the old man put both hands to his ears and hobbled away into the forest. He hobbled along as fast as he could hobble until he came to the hut under the pine trees. This time the little queer children were not hiding under the blankets or in the stove, or chattering in the hut. They were all over the roof of the hut, dancing and crawling about. Some of them were even sitting on the chimney. And every one of the little queer children was playing with a turnip. As soon as they saw the old man they all came tumbling off the roof one after another, head over heels like a lot of peas rolling off a shovel. We stole the turnips, they shouted before the old man could say anything at all. I know you did, says the old man, but that does not make it any better for me. And it is I who get the scolding when the turnips fly away in the night. Never again, shouted the children, while I'm glad to hear that, says the old man. And we'll pay for the turnips. Thank you kindly, says the old man. He hadn't the heart to be angry with those little queer children. Three or four of them ran into the hut and came out again with a wooden whistle, a regular whistle pipe, such as shepherd's use. They gave it to the old man. I could never play that, says the old man. I don't know one tune from another. And if I did, my old fingers are as stiff as oak twigs. Blow in it, cried the children, and all the others came crowding round, laughing and chattering, and whispering to each other. Is he going to blow in it? They asked. He is going to blow in it. How they laughed. The old man took the whistle and gathered his breath and puffed out his cheeks, and blew in the whistle pipe as hard as he could, and before he could take the whistle from his lips, three lively whips had slipped out of it and were beating him as hard as they could go, although there was nobody to hold them. Phew, phew, phew. The three whips came down on him one after the other. Blow again! The children shouted, laughing as if they were mad. Blow again! Quick, quick, quick! Until the whips to get into the whistle. The old man did not wait to be told twice. He blew for all he was worth, and instantly the three whips stopped beating him. Into the whistle, he cried, and the three lively whips shot up into the whistle, like three snakes going into a hole. He could hardly have believed they had been out at all if it had not been for the soreness of his back. You take that home, cried the children. That'll pay for the turnips and put everything right. Who knows, said the old man, and he thanked the children and set off home to the green forest. Goodbye, cried the little queer children. But as soon as he had started they forgot all about him. When he looked round to wave his hand to them, not one of them was thinking of him. They were up again on the roof of the hut, jumping over each other and dancing and crawling about and rolling each other down the roof, and climbing up again as if they had been doing nothing else all day, and were going to do nothing else till the end of the world. The old man hobbled home through the green forest with the whistle stuck safely away into his shirt. As soon as he came to the door of the hut, the old woman, who was sitting inside counting the gold pieces, jumped up and started her scolding. What have the children ticked you with this time, she screamed at him? They gave me a whistle pipe, says the old man, and they are not going to steal the turnips any more. A whistle pipe, she screamed, what's the good of that? It's worse than the tablecloth and the skinny old goat. The old man said nothing. Give it to me, screamed the woman. They were my turnips, so it is my whistle pipe. Well, whatever you do, don't blow in it, says the old man, and he hands over the whistle pipe. She wouldn't listen to him. What, says she, I must not blow my own whistle pipe? And with that, she put the whistle pipe to her lips and blew. Out jumped the three lively whips, flew up in the air, and began to beat her, one after another. If they made the old man sore, it was nothing to what they did to the cross, old woman. Stop them, stop them! She screamed, running this way and that in the hut, with the whips flying after her beating her all the time. I'll never scold again. I am to blame. I stole the magic tablecloth and put an old one instead of it. I hid it in the iron chest. She ran to the iron chest and opened it and pulled out the tablecloth. Stop them, stop them! She screamed while the whips laid it on hard and fast, one after the other. I am to blame. The goat that sneezes gold pieces is hidden in the bushes. The goat by the door is one of the old ones. I wanted all the gold for myself. All this time the old man was trying to get hold of the whistlepipe, but the old woman was running about the hut so fast, with the whips flying after her and beating her, that he could not get it out of her hands. At last he grabbed it into the whistle, says he, and put it to his lips and blew. In a moment the three lively whips had hidden themselves in the whistle. And there was the cross, old woman, kissing his hand and promising never to scold again. That's all right, says the old man, and he fetched the sneezing goat out of the bushes and made it sneeze a little gold just to be sure that it was that goat and no other. Then he laid the tablecloth on the table and told it to turn inside out. Up it flew and came down again with the best dinner that ever was cooked, only waiting to be eaten. And the old man and the old woman sat down and ate till they could eat no more. The old woman rubbed herself now and again, and the old man rubbed himself too, but there was never a cross word between them, and they went to bed singing like nightingales. Is that the end, Marusha always asked? Is that all, asked Vanya, though he knew it was not? Not quite, said old Peter, but the tail won't go any quicker than my old tongue. In the morning the old woman had forgotten about her promise, and just from habit she set about scolding the old man as if the whips had never jumped out of the whistle. She scolded him for sleeping too long, sent him upstairs with a lot of cross words after him to go to the top of the dove-coat to see how those turnips were getting on. After a little the old man came down. The turnips are coming on grandly, says he, and not a single one has gone in the night. I told you the children said they would not steal any more. I don't believe you, said the old woman. I'll see for myself, and if any are gone you shall pay for it and pay for it well. Up she jumped and tried to climb the stairs, but the stairs were narrow and steep and twisting. She tried and tried and could not get up at all. So she gets angrier than ever and starts scolding the old man again, you must carry me up, says she. I have to hold on with both hands, or I couldn't get up myself, says the old man. I'll get in the flower sack, and you must carry me up with your teeth, says she. They're strong enough. And the old woman got into the flower sack. Don't ask me any questions, says the old man, and he took the sack in his teeth and began slowly climbing up the stairs, holding on with both hands. He climbed and climbed, but he did not climb fast enough for the old woman. Are we at the top, says she. The old man said nothing, but went on, climbing up and up, nearly dead with the weight of the old woman in the sack, which he was holding in his teeth. He climbed a little further, and the old woman screamed out, Are we at the top now? We must be at the top. Let me out, you old fool. The old man said nothing. He climbed on and on. The old woman raged in the flower sack. She jumped about in the sack and screamed at the old man. Are we near the top now? Answer me, can't you? Answer me at once, or you'll pay for it later. Are we near the top? Very near, said the old man. And as he opened his mouth to say that, the sack slipped from between his teeth, and bump, bump, bump, but he bumped the old woman in the sack, felt all the way to the very bottom, bumping on every step. That was the end of her. After that the old man lived alone in the hut. When he wanted tobacco or clothes or a new axe, he made the goat sneeze some gold pieces, and off he went to the town with plenty of money in his pocket. When he wanted his dinner, he had only to lay the table cloth. He never had any washing up to do, because the tablecloth did it for him. When he wanted to get rid of troublesome guests, he gave them the whistle to blow. And when he was lonely and wanted company, he went to the little hut under the pine trees, and played with the little queer children. End of the stolen turnips, the magic tablecloth, the sneezing goat, and the wooden whistle. CHAPTER XI. OF OLD PEDERS RUSSIAN TAILS. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Joan Freeman. LITTLE MASTER MISERY. Once upon a time there were two brothers, peasants, and one was kind, and the other was cunning. And the cunning one made money and became rich. Very rich. So rich that he thought himself far too good for the village. He went off to the town and dressed in fine furs, and clothed his wife in rich brocades, and made friends among the merchants and began to live as merchants live, eating all day long no longer like a simple peasant who eats kasha one day, kasha the next day, and for a change kasha on the third day also. And always he grew richer and richer. It was very different with the kind one. He lent money to a neighbor and the neighbor never paid it back. He sowed before the last frost and lost all his crops. His horse went lame. His cow gave no milk. If his hens laid eggs they were stolen, and if he set a nightline in the river, someone else always pulled it out and stole the fish and the hooks. Everything went wrong with him, and each day saw him poorer than the day before. At last there came a time when he had not a crumb of bread in the house. He and his wife were thin as sticks because they had nothing to eat, and the children were crying all day long because of their little empty stomachs. From morning till night he dug and worked, struggling against poverty like a fish against the ice. But it was no good. Things went from bad to worse. At last his wife said to him, you must go to the town and see that rich brother of yours. He will surely not refuse to give you a little help. And he said, truly, wife, there is nothing else to be done. I will go to the town, and perhaps my rich brother will help me. I am sure he would not let my children starve. After all, he is their uncle. So he took his stick and tramped off to the town. He came to the house of his rich brother, a fine house it was, with painted eaves and a doorway carved by a master. Many servants were there, and food in plenty, and people coming and going. He went in and found his brother and said, Dear brother of mine, I beg you to help me, even if only a little. My wife and children are without bread. All day long they sit hungry and waiting, and I have no food to give them. The rich brother looks at him, and hums, and strokes his beard. Then says he, I will help you, but, of course, you must do something in return. Stay here and work for me, and at the end of a week you shall have the help you have earned. The poor brother thanked him, and bowed and kissed his hand and praised God for the kindness of his brother's heart, and set instantly to work. For a whole week he slaved and scarcely slept. He cleaned out the stables and cut the wood, swept the yard, drew water from the well, and ran errands for the cook. And at the end of the week his brother called him and gave him a single loaf of bread. You must not forget, says the rich brother, that I have fed you all the week you have been here, and all that food counts in the payment. The poor brother thanked him, and was setting off to carry the loaf to his wife and children when the rich brother called him back. Stop a minute, said he. I would like you to know that I am well disposed towards you. Tomorrow is my name day. Come to the feast and bring your wife with you. How can I do that, brother? Your friends are rich merchants with fine clothes and boots on their feet, and I have nothing but my old coat, and my legs are bound in rags and my feet shuffle along in straw slippers. I do not want to shame you before your guests. Never mind about that, says the rich brother. We will find a place for you. Very good, brother, and thank you kindly. God be praised for having given you a tender heart. And the poor brother, though he was tired out after all the work he had done, set off home as fast as he could to take the bread to his wife and children. He might have given you more than that, said his wife. But listen, said he, what do you think of this? Tomorrow we are invited, you and I, as guests to go to a great feast. What do you mean, a feast? Who has invited us? My brother has invited us. Tomorrow is his name day. I always told you he had a kind heart. We shall be well fed, and I dare say we shall be able to bring back something for the children. A pleasure like that does not often come our way, said his wife. So early in the morning they got up and walked all the way to the town, so as not to shame the rich brother by putting up their old cart in the yard beside the merchant's fine carriages. They came to the rich brother's house and found the guests all assembled and making merry. Rich merchants and their plump wives, all eating and laughing and drinking and talking. They wished a long life to the rich brother, and the poor brother wanted to make a speech congratulating him on his name day. But the rich brother scarcely thanked him, because he was so busy entertaining the rich merchants and their plump laughing wives. He was pressing food on his guests, now this, now that, and calling to the servants to keep their glasses filled and their plates full of all the tastiest kinds of food. As for the poor brother and his wife, the rich one forgot all about them, and they got nothing to eat and never a drop to drink. They just sat there with empty plates and empty glasses, watching how the others ate and drank. The poor brother laughed with the rest, because he did not wish to show that he had been forgotten. The dinner came to an end. One by one the guests went up to the giver of the feast to thank him for his good cheer. And the poor brother too got up from the bench and bowed low before his brother and thanked him. The guests went home, drunk and joyful, a fine noise they made as people do on these occasions, shouting jokes to each other and singing songs at the top of their voices. The poor brother and his wife went home empty and sad, all that long way they had walked, and now they had to walk it again, the feast was over, and never a bite had they had in their mouths nor a drop in their gullets. Come, wife, says the poor brother, as he trudged along, let us sing a song like the others. What a fool you are, says his wife. Hungry and cross she was, as even Marusia would be after a day like that, watching other people stuff themselves. What a fool you are, says she. People may very well sing when they have eaten tasty dishes and drunk good wine, but what reason have you got for making a merry noise in the night? Why my dear, says he, we have been at my brother's name-day feast. I am ashamed to go home without a song. I'll sing, I'll sing so that everyone shall think he loaded us with good things like the rest. Well, sing if you like, but you'll sing by yourself. So the peasant, the poor brother, started singing a song with his dry throat. He lifted his voice and sang like the rest while his wife trudged silently beside him. But as he sang it seemed to the peasant that he heard two voices singing, his own and another's. He stopped and asked his wife, is that you joining in my song with a little thin voice? What's the matter with you? I never thought of singing with you. I never opened my mouth. Who is it then? No one except yourself. Anyone would say you had had a drink of wine after all. But I heard someone, a little weak voice, a little sad voice, joining with mine. I heard nothing, said his wife, but sing again, and I'll listen. The poor man sang again. He sang alone. His wife listened, and it was clear that there were two voices singing, the dry voice of the poor man and a little miserable voice that came from the shadows under the trees. The poor man stopped and asked out loud, who are you who are singing with me? And a thin little voice answered out of the shadows by the roadside under the trees. I am misery. So it was you, misery, who were helping me? Yes, master, I was helping you. Well, little master misery, come along with us and keep us company. I'll do that willingly, says little master misery, and I'll never, never leave you at all. No, not if you have no other friend in the world. And a wretched little man with a miserable face and little thin legs and arms came out of the shadows and went home with the peasant and his wife. It was late when they got home, but little master misery asked the peasant to take him to the tavern. After such a day as this has been, says he, there's nothing else to be done. But I have no money, says the peasant. Well, what of that, says little master misery? Spring has begun and you have a winter jacket on. It will soon be summer and whether you have it or not, you won't wear it. Bring it along to the tavern and change it for a drink. The poor man went to the tavern with little master misery and they sat there and drank the vodka that the tavern-keeper gave them in exchange for the coat. Next day early in the morning little master misery began complaining. His head ached and he could not open his eyes and he did not like the weather and the children were crying and there was no food in the house. He asked the peasant to come with him to the tavern again and forget all this wretchedness in a drink. But I've got no money, says the peasant. Rubbish, says little master misery, you have a sledge and a cart. They took the cart and the sledge to the tavern and stayed there drinking until the tavern-keeper said they had had all that the cart and the sledge were worth. Then the tavern-keeper took them and threw them out of doors into the night and they picked themselves up and crawled home. Next day misery complained worse than before and begged the peasant to come with him to the tavern. There was no getting rid of him, no keeping him quiet. The peasant sold his barrel and plow so that he could no longer work his land. He went to the tavern with little master misery. A month went by like that. And at the end of it the peasant had nothing left at all. He had even pledged the hut he lived in to a neighbor and taken the money to the tavern. And every day little master misery begged him to come. There I am not wretched any longer, says misery. There I sing and even dance, hitting the floor with my heels and making a merry noise. But now I have no money at all and nothing left to sell, says the poor peasant. I'd be willing to go with you, but I can't. And here is an end of it. Ruppish, says misery, your wife has two dresses. Leave her one, she can't wear both at once. Leave her one and buy a drink with the other. They're both ragged, but take the better of the two. The tavern keeper is a just man and will give us more drink for the better one. The peasant took the dress and sold it. And misery laughed and danced while the peasant thought to himself. Well, this is the end. I've nothing left to sell and my wife has nothing either. Weave the clothes on our backs and nothing else in the world. In the morning little master misery woke with a headache as usual and a mouthful of groans and complaints. But he saw that the peasant had nothing left to sell and he called out, listen to me, master of the house. What is it, misery, says the peasant who was master of nothing in the world. Go you to a neighbor and beg the loan of a cart and a pair of good oxen. The poor peasant had no will of his own left. He did exactly as he was told. He went to his neighbor and begged the loan of the oxen and cart. But how will you repay me? says the neighbor. I will do a week's work for you for nothing. Very well, says the neighbor, take the oxen and cart, but be careful not to give them too heavy a load. Indeed I won't, says the peasant thinking to himself that he had nothing to load them with. And thank you very much, says he, and he goes back to misery taking with him the oxen and cart. Misery looked at him and grumbled in his wretched little voice. They are hardly strong enough. They are the best I could borrow, says the peasant, and you and I have starved too long to be heavy. And the peasant and little master Misery sat together in the cart and drove off together, Misery holding his head in both hands and groaning at the jolt of the cart. As soon as they had left the village Misery sat up and asked the peasant, Do you know the big stone that stands alone in the middle of a field not far from here? Of course I know it, says the peasant. Drive straight to it, says Misery, and went on rocking himself too and fro, and groaning and complaining in his wretched little voice. They came to the stone and got down from the cart and looked at the stone. It was very big and heavy, and was fixed in the ground. Heave it up, says Misery. The poor peasant set to work to heave it up, and Misery helped him groaning and complaining that the peasant was nothing of a fellow because he could not do his work by himself. Well they heaved it up, and there below it was a deep hole, and the hole was filled with gold pieces to the very top, more gold pieces than ever you will see copper ones if you live to be a hundred and ten. Well, what are you staring at, says Misery? Stir yourself and be quick about it and load all this gold into the cart. The peasant set to work and piled all the gold into the cart down to the very last gold piece, while Misery sat on the stone and watched, groaning and chuckling in his weak wretched little voice. Be quick, says Misery, and then we can get back to the tavern. The peasant looked into the pit to see that there was nothing left there, and then says he, just take a look, little master Misery, and see that we have left nothing behind. You are smaller than I, and can get right down into the pit. Misery slipped down from the stone, grumbling at the peasant and bent over the pit. You've taken a lot, says he, there's nothing to be seen, but what is that, says the peasant, there, shining in the corner. I don't see it. Jump down into the pit and you'll see it. It would be a pity to waste a gold piece. Misery jumped down into the pit, and instantly the peasant rolled the stone over the hole and shut him in. Things will be better, so, says the peasant, if I were to let you out of that, sooner or later you would drink up all this money, just as you drank up everything I had. Then the peasant drove home and hid the gold in the cellar, took the oxen and cart back to his neighbor, thanked him kindly and began to think what he would do, now that Misery was his master no longer, and he with plenty of money. But he had to work for a week to pay for the loan of the oxen and cart, said Vanya. While during the week while he was working he was thinking all the time in his head, said old Peter a little grumpily, then he went on with his tale. As soon as the week was over he bought a forest and built himself a fine house, and began to live twice as richly as his brother in the town. And his wife had two new dresses, perhaps more, with a lot of gold and silver braid and necklaces of big yellow stones and bracelets and sparkling rings. His children were well fed every day, rivers of milk between banks of kissle jelly, and mushrooms with sauce and soup and cakes with little balls of egg and meat hidden in the middle, and they had toys that squeaked, a little boy feeding a goose that poked its head into a dish, and a painted hen with a lot of chickens that all squeaked together. Time went on, and when his name-day drew near he thought of his brother, the merchant, and drove off to the town to invite him to take part in the feast. I have not forgotten, brother, that you invited me to yours. What a fellow you are, says his brother! You have nothing to eat yourself, and here you are inviting other people for your name-day. Yes, said the peasant, once upon a time it is true. I had nothing to eat. But now, praise be to God, I am no poorer than yourself. Come to my name-day feast, and you will see. Very well, says his brother, I'll come. But don't think you can play any jokes on me. On the morning of the peasant's name-day his brother, the merchant in the town, put on his best clothes and his plump wife dressed in all her-bitchest, and they got into their cart. A fine cart it was, too, painted in the brightest colors, and off they drove together to the house of the brother who had once been poor. They took a basket of food with them, in case he had only been joking when he invited them to his name-day feast. They drove to the village and asked for him at the hut where he used to be. An old man hobbling along the road answered them, Oh, you mean our Ivan Ilyich. Well he does not live here any longer. Where have you been that you have not heard? His is the big new-house on the hill. You can see it through the trees over there, where all those people are walking. He has a kind heart he has, and riches have not spoiled it. He has invited the whole village to feast with him, because today is his name-day. Riches thought the merchant a new-house. He was very much surprised, but as he drove along the road he was more surprised still, for he passed all the villagers on their way to the feast and everyone was talking of his brother and how kind he was and how generous and what a feast there was going to be and how many barrels of mead and wine had been taken up to the house. All the folk were hurrying along the road licking their lips, each one going faster than the other so as to be sure not to miss any of the good things. The rich brother from the town drove with his wife into the courtyard of the fine new-house, and there on the steps was the peasant brother, Ivan Ilyich, and his wife receiving their guests, and if the rich brother was well-dressed the peasant was better dressed, and if the rich brother's wife was in her fine clothes the peasant's wife fairly glittered, what with the gold braid on her bosom and the shining silver in her hair, and the peasant brother kissed his brother from the town on both cheeks and gave him and his wife the best places at the table. He fed them, ah how he fed them, with little red slips of smoked salmon and beetroot soup with cream and slabs of sturgeon and meats of three or four kinds and game and sweet meats of the best. There never was such a feast, no, not even at the wedding of a czar. And as for drink there were red wine and white wine and beer and mead and great barrels and everywhere the peasant went about among his guests, filling glasses and seeing that their plates were kept piled with the foods each one liked best. Then the rich brother wondered and wondered, and at last he could wait no longer and he took his brother aside and said, I am delighted to see you so rich, but tell me, I beg you, how it was that all this good fortune came to you. The poor brother, never thinking, told him all, the whole truth about little master Misery and the pitful of gold and how Misery was shut in there under the big stone. The merchant brother listened and did not forget a word. He could hardly bear himself for envy and as for his wife she was worse. She looked at the peasant's wife with her beautiful headdress and she bit her lips till they bled. As soon as they could they said goodbye and drove off home. The merchant brother could not bear the thought that his brother was richer than he. He said to himself, I will go to the field and move the stone and let master Misery out. Then he will go and tear my brother to pieces for shutting him in. And his riches will not be of much use to him then, even if Misery does not give them to me as a token of gratitude. Think of my brother daring to show off his riches to me. So he drove off to the field and came at last to the big stone. He moved the stone on one side and then bent over the pit to see what was in it. He had scarcely put his head over the edge before Misery sprang up out of the pit, seated himself firmly on his shoulders, squeezed his neck between his little wiry legs and pulled out handfuls of his hair. Scream away, cried little Master Misery. You tried to kill me, shutting me up in there, while you went off and bought fine clothes. You tried to kill me and came to feast your eyes on my corpse. Now whatever happens I'll never leave you again. Listen, Misery screamed the merchant, I, I, stop pulling my hair. You are choking me. I, listen, it was not I who shut you in under the stone. Who was it if it was not you, asked Misery, tugging out his hair and digging his knees into the merchant's throat? It was my brother. I came here on purpose to let you out. I came out of pity. Misery tugged the merchant's hair and twisted the merchant's ears till they nearly came off. Liar, liar! he shouted in his little wretched angry voice. You tricked me once. Do you think you'll get the better of me again by a clumsy lie of that kind? Now then, gie up, home we go. And so the rich brother went trotting home, crying with pain, while little Master Misery sat firmly on his shoulders, pulling at his hair. Instantly Misery was at his old tricks. You seem to have bought a good deal with the gold, he said, looking at the merchant's house. We'll see how far it will go. And every day he rode the rich merchant to the tavern and made him drink up all his money, and his house, his clothes, his horses, and carts, and sludges—everything he had, until he was as poor as his brother had been in the beginning. The merchant thought and thought and puzzled his brain to find a way to get rid of him. And at last one night when Misery had groaned himself to sleep, the merchant went out into the yard and took a big cartwheel and made two stout wedges of wood, just big enough to fit into the hub of the wheel. He drove one wedge firmly in, at one end of the hub, and left the wheel in the yard with the other wedge, and a big hammer lying handy close to it. In the morning Misery wakes as usual and cries out to be taken to the tavern. We've sold everything I've got, says the merchant. Well, what are you going to do to amuse me, says Misery? Let's play hide-and-seek in the yard, says the merchant. Right, says Misery, but you'll never find me, for I can make myself so small I can hide in a mouse-hole in the floor. We'll see, says the merchant. The merchant hid first, and Misery found him at once. Now it's my turn, says Misery, but what's the good? You'll never find me. Why, I could get inside the hub of that wheel if I had a mind too. What a liar you are, says the merchant. You never could get into that little hole. Look, says Misery, and he made himself little, little, little, and sat on the hub of the wheel. Look, says he, making himself smaller again, and then poof in he pops into the hole of the hub. Instantly, the merchant took the other wedge and the hammer, and drove the wedge into the hole. The first wedge had closed up the other end, and so there was Misery shut up inside the hub of the cartwheel. The merchant set the wheel on his shoulders and took it to the river and threw it out as far as he could, and it went floating away down to the sea. Then he went home and set to work to make money again and earn his daily bread, for Misery had made him so poor that he had nothing left, and had to hire himself out to make a living just as his peasant brother used to do. But what happened to Misery when he went floating away? He floated away down the river, shut up in the hub of the wheel. He ought to have starved there. But I am afraid some silly, greedy fellow thought to get a new wheel for nothing, and pulled the wedges out and let him go, for by all I hear, Misery is still wandering about the world and making people wretched. Bad luck to him. End of Little Master Misery. A CHAPTER OF FISH OF OLD PEDERS, RUSSIAN TAILS. Several times in spring when the big river flooded its banks and made lakes of the meadows, and the little rivers flowed deep, old Peter spent a few days netting fish. Also in the summer he set nightlines, in the little river not far from where it left the forest, and so it happened that one day he sat in the warm sunshine outside his hut, mending his nets and making floats for them. That cork floats like ours, but little rolls of the silver bark of the birch tree. And while he sat there, Vanya and Marusha watched him, and sometimes even helped, holding a piece of the net between them, while old Peter fastened on the little glistening rolls of bark that were to keep it up in the water. And all the time old Peter worked he smoked, and told them stories about fish. He told them what happened when the first pike was born, and how it is that all the little fish are not eaten by the great pike with his huge, greedy mouth and his sharp teeth. On the night of Ivanov's Day, that is the day of St. John, which is Midsummer, there was born the pike, a huge fish, with such teeth as ever were. And when the pike was born, the waters of the river formed and raged, so that the ships in the river were all but swamped, and the pretty young girls who were playing on the banks ran away as fast as they could, frightened they were by the roaring of the waves and the black wind and the white foam on the water. Terrible was the birth of that sharp, toothed pike. And when the pike was born, he did not grow up by months or by days, but by hours. Every day it was two inches longer than the day before. In a month it was two yards long, in two months it was twelve feet long, in three months it was raging up and down the river like a tempest, eating the bream and the perch and all the small fish that came in its way. There was a bream or a perch swimming lazily in the stream. The pike sought as it raged by, caught it in its great white mouth, and instantly the bream or the perch was gone, torn to pieces by the pike's teeth, and swallowed as you would swallow a sunflower seed, and the bream and perch are big fish. It was worse for the little ones. It was to be done. The bream and the perch put their heads together in a quiet pool. It was clear enough that the great pike would eat every one of them. So they called a meeting of all the little fish, and set to thinking what could be done by way of dealing with the great pike, which had such sharp teeth, and was making so free with their lives. They all came to the meeting, bream and perch and roach and dace and gudgeon, yes, and the little ursh with his spiny back. The silly roach said, Let us kill the pike. But the gudgeon looked at him with his great eyes and asked, Have you got good teeth? No, says the roach. I haven't any teeth. You'd swallow the pike, I suppose, says the perch. My mouth is too small. Then do not use it to talk foolishness, said the gudgeon, and the roach's fins blushed scarlet, and are red to this day. I will set my prickles on end, says the perch, who has a roll of sharp prickles in the fin on his back. The pike won't find them too comfortable in his throat. Yes, says the bream, but you will have to go into his throat to put them there, and he'll swallow you all the same. Besides, we have not all got prickles. There was a lot more foolishness talked, even the minnows had something to say until they were made to be quiet by the dace. Now the little ursch had come to the meeting with his spiny back and his big front fins and his head all shining in blue and gold and green, and when he had heard all they had to say he began to talk. Think away, says he, and break your heads and spoil your brains, if ever you had any. But listen for a moment to what I have to say. And all the fish turn to listen to the ursch, who is the cleverest of all the little fish, because he has a big head and a small body. Listen, says the ursch. It is clear enough that the pike lives in this big river, and that he does not give the little fish a chance. Crunches them all with his sharp teeth, and swallows them pen at a time. I quite agree that it would be much better for everybody if he could be killed. But not one of us is strong enough for that. We are not strong enough to kill him, but we can starve him, and save ourselves at the same time. There's no living in the big river while he is there. Let all us little fish clear out, and go and live in the little rivers that flow into the big. There the waters are shallow, and we can hide among the weeds. No one will touch us there, and we can live and bring up our children in peace, and only be in danger when we go visiting from one little river to another. And as for the great pike, we will leave him alone in the big river, to rage hungrily up and down. His teeth will soon grow blunt, for there will be nothing for him to eat. All the little fish waved their fins, and danced in the water when they heard the wisdom of the urches' speech, and the urch, and the roach, and the brim, and the perch, and the bass, and the gudgeon left the big river, and swam up the little rivers between the green meadows. And there they began again to live in peace, and to bring up their little ones, though the cunning fishermen set nets in the little rivers, and caught many of them on their way. From that time on, there have never been many little fish in the big river. And as for the monstrous pike, he swam up and down the river, lashing the waters, and driving his nose through the waves, but found no food for his sharp teeth. He had to take to worms, and was caught in the end on a fisherman's hook. Yes, and the fisherman made a soup of him, the best fish soup that was ever made. He was a friend of mine when I was a boy, and he gave me a taste in my wooden spoon. Then he told them the story of other pike, and particularly of the pike that was king of a river, and made the little fish come together on the top of the water, so that the young hunter could cross over with dry feet. And he told them of the pike that hid the lover of the princess by swallowing him, and lying at the bottom of a deep pool, and how the princess saw her lover sitting in the pike, when the big fish opened his mouth to snap up a little perch that swam to near his nose. Then he told them of the big trial in the river when the fishes chose judges, and made a case at law against the ursh, and found him guilty, and how the ursh spat in the faces of the judges and swam merrily away. Finally, he told them the story of the golden fish, but that is a long story and a chapter all by itself, and begins on the next page. End of A Chapter of Fish, Recording by Jenny Lundack, South Padre Island, Texas. The Golden Fish of Old Peter's Russian Tales. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jenny Lundack. Old Peter's Russian Tales. By Arthur Ransom. The Golden Fish. This, said Old Peter, is a story against wanting more than enough. Long ago, near the shore of the Blue Sea, an old man lived with his old woman in a little old hut, made of earth and moss and logs. They never had a ruble to spend—a ruble. They never had a co-peck. They just lived there in the little hut, and the old man caught fish out of the sea in his old net, and the old woman cooked the fish, and so they lived—poorly enough in summer, and worse in winter. Sometimes they had a few fish to sell, but not often. In the summer evenings they sat outside their hut on a broken old bench, and the old man mended the holes in his ragged old net. There were holes in it—a hare could jump through with his ears standing, let alone one of those little fishes that live in the sea. The old woman sat on a bench beside him, and patched his trousers and complained. Well, one day the old man went fishing, as he always did. All day long he fished, and caught nothing. And then, in the evening, when he was thinking he might as well give up and go home, he threw his net for the last time, and when he came to pull it in, he began to think he had caught an island instead of a haul of fish. And a strong and lively island at that. The net was so heavy, and pulled so hard against his feeble old arms. This time, says he, I have caught a hundred fish at least. Not a bit of it. The net came in as heavy as if it were full of fighting fish, but empty. Empty, said Marusia. Well, not quite empty, said old Peter, and went on with his tail. Not quite empty, for when the last of the net came ashore, there was something glittering in it. A golden fish, not very big and not very little, caught in the meshes. And it was this single golden fish which had made the net so heavy. The old fisherman took the golden fish in his hands. At least it will be enough for supper, said he. The golden fish lay stiff in his hands, and looked at him with wise eyes, and spoke. Yes, my dears, it spoke, just as if it were you or I. Old man, says the fish, do not kill me. I beg you, throw me back into the blue waters. Someday I may be of use to you. What, says the old fisherman, and do you talk with a human voice? I do, says the fish, and my fish's heart feels pain like yours. It would be as bitter to me to die as it would be to yourself. And is that so, says the old fisherman, well, you shall not die this time. And he threw the golden fish back into the sea. You would have thought the golden fish would have splashed with its tail and turned head downwards and swum away into the blue depths of the sea. Not a bit of it. It stayed there with its tail slowly flapping in the water, so as to keep its head up, and it looked at the fisherman with its wise eyes and spoke again. You have given me my life, says the golden fish. Now ask anything you wish from me, and you shall have it. The old fisherman stood there on the shore, combing his beard with his old fingers and thinking, think as he would, he could not call to mind a single thing he wanted. No fish, he said at last. I think I have everything I need. Well, if ever you do want anything, come and ask for it, says the fish, and turns over, flashing gold and goes down into the blue sea. The old fisherman went back to his hut, where his wife was waiting for him. What? She screamed out, You haven't caught so much as one little fish for our supper. I caught one fish, mother, says the old man. A golden fish it was, and it spoke to me, and I let it go, and it told me to ask for anything I wanted. And what did you ask for? Show me. I couldn't think of anything to ask for, so I did not ask for anything at all. Fool, says his wife, and don't, and us, with no food to put in our mouths, go back at once and ask for some bread. Well, the old fisherman got down his net and tramped back to the seashore, and he stood on the shore of the wide blue sea, and called out, Head in the air, and tail in the sea, Fish, fish, listen to me. And in a moment there was the golden fish, with his head out of the water, flapping his tail below him in the water, and looking at the fisherman with his wise eyes. Is it, said the fish, be so kind, says the fisherman, be so kind, we have no bread in the house. Go home, says the fish, and turned over and went into the sea. Oh, God be with me, says the old fisherman. But what shall I say to my wife, going home like this without the bread? And he went home very wretchedly and slower than he came. As soon as he came within sight of his hut, he saw his wife, and she was waving her arms and shouting. Stirring your old bones, she screamed out. It's as fine a loaf as I've ever seen. And he hurried along and found his old wife cutting up a huge loaf of white bread, mind you, not black, a huge loaf of white bread, nearly as big as Marusha. You did not do so badly after all, said his old wife, as they sat there with the samovar on the table between them, dipping their bread in the hot tea. But that night, as they lay sleeping on the stove, the old woman poked the old man in the ribs with her bony elbow. He groaned and woke up. I've been thinking, says his wife, your fish might have given us a trough to keep the bread in while he was about it. There's a lot left over and without a trough. It will go bad and it will not be fit for anything. And our old trough is broken. Besides, it's too small. First thing in the morning off you go and ask your fish to give us a new trough to put the bread in. Early in the morning she woke the old man again, and he had to get up and go down to the seashore. He was very much afraid because he thought the fish would not take it kindly. But at dawn, just as the red sun was rising out of the sea, he stood on the shore and called out in his windy old voice, Head in the air and pale in the sea, fish, fish, listen to me. And there in the morning sunlight was the golden fish, looking at him with its wise eyes. I beg your pardon, says the old man, but could you just oblige my wife, give us some sort of trough to put the bread in? Go home, says the fish, and down it goes into the blue sea. The old man went home, and there, outside the hut, was the old woman, looking at the handsomest bread trough that ever was seen on earth. Painted it was, with little flowers in three colors, and there were strips of gilding about its handles. Look at this, grumbled the old woman. This is far too fine a trough for a tumbledown hut like ours. Why, there is scarcely a place in the roof where the rain does not come through. If we were to keep this trough in such a hut, it would be spoiled in a month. You must go back to your fish and ask it for a new hut. I hardly like to do that, says the old man. Get along with you, says his wife. If the fish can make a trough like this, a hut will be no trouble to him, and after all, you must not forget. He owes his life to you. I suppose that's true, said the old man. But he went back to the shore with a heavy heart. He stood on the edge of the sea and called out doubtfully, head in the air and pale in the sea, fish, fish, listen to me. Instantly there was a ripple in the water, and the golden fish was looking at him with its wise eyes. Well, says the fish. My old woman is so pleased with the trough that she wants a new hut to keep it in, because ours, if you could only see it, is really falling to pieces and the rain comes in and, go home, says the fish. The old fisherman went home, but he could not find his old hut at all. At first he thought he had lost his way, but then he saw his wife, and she was walking about, first one way and then the other, looking at the finest hut that God ever gave a poor Muzik to keep him from the rain and the cold and the two great heat of the sun. It was built of sound logs neatly finished at the ends and carved, and the overhanging of the roof was cut in patterns, so neat, so pretty, you could never think how they had been done. The old woman looked at it from all sides, and the old man stood wondering. Then they went in together and everything within the hut was new and clean. There were a fine big stove and strong wooden benches and a good table and a fire lit in the stove and logs ready to put in and a samovar already on the boil, a fine new samovar of glittering brass. You would have thought the old woman would have been satisfied with that. Not a bit of it. You don't know how to lift your eyes from the ground, says she. You don't know what to ask. I am tired of being a peasant woman and a Muzik's wife. I was made for something better. I want to be a lady and have good people to do the work and see folk bow and curtsy to me when I meet them walking abroad. Go back at once to the fish, you old fool, and ask him for that instead of bothering him for little trifles like bread-trops and Muzik's huts. Off with you! The old fisherman went back to the shore with a sad heart. But he was afraid of his wife, and he dared not disobey her. He stood on the shore and called out in his windy old voice, head in the air and pale in the sea, fish, fish, listen to me. See, there was the goldfish looking at him with its wise eyes. Well, says the fish, my old woman won't give me a moment's peace, says the old man. And since she has the new hut, which is a fine one, I must say, as good a hut as ever I saw, she won't be content at all. She is tired of being a peasant's wife and wants to be a lady with a house and servants. She wants to see the good folk curtsy to her when she meets them walking abroad. Go home, says the fish. The old man went home thinking about the hut and how pleasant it would be to live in it, even if his wife were a lady. But when he got home the hut was gone, and in its place there was a fine brick-house. Three stories high! There were servants running this way and that in the court-yard. There was a cook in the kitchen, and there was his old woman in a dress of rich brocade, sitting idle in a tall, carved chair and giving orders right and left. Good health to you, wife, says the old man. Ah, you clown that you are, how dare you call me your wife? Can't you see that I'm a lady here? Off with this fellow to the stables, and see that he gets a beating he won't forget in a hurry. Instantly the servants seized the old man by the collar and lugged him along to the stables. There the grooms treated him to such a whipping that he could hardly stand on his feet. After that the old woman made him doorkeeper. She ordered that a bosom should be given to him to clean up the court-yard, and said that he was to have his meals in the kitchen. A wretched life the old man lived. All day long he was sweeping up the court-yard, and if there was a speck of dirt to be seen in it anywhere, he paid for it at once in the stable under the whips of the grooms. Time went on, and the old woman grew tired of being a lady, and at last there came a day when she sent into the yard to tell the old man to come before her. The old man combed his hair and cleaned his boots and came into the house and bowed low before the old woman. Be off with you, you old good-for-nothing, says she, go and find your golden fish, and tell him from me that I am tired of being a lady. I want to be a Zaritsa, with generals and courtiers, and men of state to do whatever I tell them. The old man went along to the seashore, glad enough to be out of the court-yard and out of reach of the stableman with their whips. He came to the shore, and cried out in his windy old voice, head in the air and pale in the sea, fish, fish, listen to me. And there was the golden fish looking at him with its wise eyes. What is the matter now, old man, says the fish. My old woman is going on worse than ever, says the old fisherman. My back is sore with the whips of her grooms, and now she says it isn't enough for her to be a lady. She wants to be a Zaritsa. Never, you worry about it, says the fish. Go home and praise God. And with that the fish turned over and went down into the sea. The old man went home slowly, for he did not know what his wife would do to him if the golden fish did not make her a Zaritsa. But as soon as he came near, he heard the noise of trumpets and the beating of drums, and there, where the fine stone house had been, was now a great palace with a golden roof. And before it was a big garden of flowers. There are fair to look at, but have no fruit. And before it was a meadow of fine green grass. And on the meadow was an army of soldiers drawn up in squares and all dressed alike. And suddenly the fisherman saw his old woman in the gold and silver dress of a Zaritsa, come stocking out on the balcony with her generals and boyars to hold a review of her troops. And the drums beat, and the trumpets sounded, and the soldiers cried, hurrah! And the poor old fisherman found a dark corner in one of the barns and lay down in the straw. Time went on, and at last the old woman was tired of being a Zaritsa. She thought she was made for something better, and one day she said to her Chamberlain, find me that ragged old beggar who is always hanging about in the courtyard. Find him and bring him here. The Chamberlain told his officers, and the officers told the servants, and the servants looked for the old man and found him, at last, asleep on the straw in the corner of one of the barns. They took some of the dirt off of him, and brought him before the Zaritsa, sitting proudly on her golden throne. Listen, old fool, says she, be off to your golden fish, and tell it I am tired of being Zaritsa. Anybody can be Zaritsa. I want to be the ruler of the seas, so that all the waters shall obey me, and all the fishes shall be my servants. I don't like to ask that, said the old man, trembling. What's that? She screamed at him. Do you dare to answer the Zaritsa? If you do not set off this minute, I'll have your head cut off, and your body thrown to the dogs. Unwillingly, the old man hobbled off. He came to the shore and cried out in a windy, quavering voice. Head in the air and pale in the sea. Fish, fish, listen to me. Nothing happened. The old man thought of his wife, and what would happen to him if she were still Zaritsa when he came home. Again he called out. Head in the air and pale in the sea. Fish, fish, listen to me. Nothing happened, nothing at all. A third time, with the tears running down his face, he called out in his windy, creaky, quavering old voice. Head in the air and pale in the sea. Fish, fish, listen to me. Suddenly there was a loud noise. Louder and louder over the sea, the sun hit itself. The sea broke into waves, and the waves piled themselves one upon another. The sky and the sea turned black, and there was a great roaring wind that lifted the white crests of the waves and tossed them abroad over the waters. The golden fish came up out of the storm and spoke out of the sea. What is it now, says he, in a voice more terrible than the voice of the storm itself. Oh, fish, says the old man, trembling like a reed shaken by the storm. My old woman is worse than before. She's tired of being a Zaritsa. She wants to be the ruler of the seas, so that all the waters shall obey her and all the fishes be her servants. Golden fish said nothing, nothing at all. He turned over and went down into the deep seas, and the wind from the sea was so strong that the old man could hardly stand against it. For a long time he waited, afraid to go home. But at last the storm calmed, and it grew towards evening, and he hobbled back, thinking to creep in and hide amongst the straw. As he came nearer, he listened for the trumpets and the drums. He heard nothing except the wind from the sea rustling the little leaves of the birch trees. He looked for the palace. It was gone, and where it had been was a little tumbledown hut of earth and logs. It seemed to the old fisherman that he knew the little hut, and he looked at it with joy, and he went to the door of the hut, and there was sitting his old woman in a ragged dress, cleaning out a saucepan and singing in a creaky, old voice. And this time she was glad to see him. And they sat down together on the bench and drank tea without sugar, because they had not any money. They began to live again, as they used to live, and the old man grew happier every day. He fished and fished, and many were the fish that he caught, and of many kinds. But never again did he catch another golden fish that could talk like a human being. I doubt whether he would have said anything to his wife about it, even if he had caught one every day. But a horrid old woman, said Marusha. I wonder that old fisherman forgave her, said Ivan. I think he might have beaten her a little, said Marusha. She deserved it. Well, said old Peter, supposing we could have everything we wanted for the asking. I wonder how it would be. Perhaps God knew what he was doing when he made those golden fishes rare. Are there really any of them, asked Vanya? Well, there was once one anyhow, said old Peter. And then he rolled his nets neatly together, hung them on the fence, and went into the hut to make the dinner. And Vanya and Marusha went in with him to help him as much as they could. Though Vanya was wondering all the time whether he could make a net and throw it in the little river where old Peter fished, and perhaps pull out a golden fish that would speak to him with the voice of a human being. End of THE GOLDEN FISH Recording by Jenny Lundack, South Padre Island, Texas. Chapter 14 of Old Peter's Russian Tales This is LibriVox recording. Old LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Old Peter's Russian Tales by Arthur Rensen. Chapter 14 Who Lived in the Skull Once upon a time, a horse's skull lay on the open plain. It had been picked clean by the end, and shone bright in the sunlight. Little Borrowing Mouse came along, twirling his whiskers and looking at the world. He saw the white skull, and thought it was as good as a palace. He stood up in front of it and called out, Little House, Little House, who lives in Little House? No one answered, for there was no one inside. I will leave there myself, says Little Borrowing Mouse, and then he went and set up a house in the horse's skull. Croaking Frog came along, a jump, three long strides, and a jump again. Little House, Little House, who lives in the Little House? I'm Borrowing Mouse, why you? I'm Croaking Frog. Come in and make yourself at home. So the frog went in, and they began to live, the two of them, together. Hare, hide in the hill, came running by. Little House, Little House, who lives in the Little House? Borrowing Mouse and Croaking Frog, who are you? I'm Hare, hide in the hill, come along in. So the hare put his ears down and went in, and they began to live, the three of them, together. Then the fox came running by. Little House, Little House, who lives in the Little House? Borrowing Mouse and Croaking Frog, and Hare, hide in the hill. Why you? I'm Fox, run about everywhere. Come along in, we have room for you. So the fox went in, and they began to live, the four of them, together. Then the wolf came prowling by, and saw the skull. Little House, Little House, who lives in the Little House? Borrowing Mouse and Croaking Frog, and Hare, hide in the hill, and Fox, run about everywhere. Why you? I'm Wolf, leap out of the bushes. Come in then. So the wolf went in, and they began to live, the five of them, together. And then they came along the bear. It was very slow and very heavy. Little House, Little House, who lives in the Little House? Borrowing Mouse and Croaking Frog, and Hare, hide in the hill, and Fox, run about everywhere. And Wolf, leap out of the bushes. Why you? I'm Bear, squashed along. And the bear sat down on the horse's skull, and squashed a whole lot of them. The way to tell that story is to make one hand the skull, and the fingers and thumb of the other hand the animals that go in one by one. At least that was the way Old Peter told it. And when it came to the end, the bear came along. Why? The bear was Old Peter himself, who squashed both the tall hands and Vanya on Marusia, whichever it was, all together in one big hug. End of Chapter 14. Chapter 15 of Old Peter's Russian Tales. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ted Nugent. Old Peter's Russian Tales by Arthur Ransom. Chapter 15. Elena Nushka and her brother. Once upon a time, there were two orphaned children, a little boy and a little girl. Their father and mother were dead, and they had not, even an old grandfather, to spend his time in telling them stories. They were alone. The little boy was called Van Nushka, and the little girl's name were Elena Nushka. That means that they were called Ivan and Elena. Van Nushka and Elena Nushka are affectionate forms of these names. They sat out together to walk through the whole of the great wide world. It was a long journey they sat out on, and they did not think of any end to it, but only of moving on and on, and never stopping long enough in one place to be unhappy there. They were traveling one day over a broad plain, patting along on their little bare feet. There were no trees on the plain, no bushes, open flat country, as far as you could see, and the great sun up in the sky, burning the grass and making their throats dry. And the sandy ground so hot that they could scarly bear to set their feet on it. All day from early morning, they had been walking, and the heat grew greater and greater, towards noon. Oh, said little Van Nushka, my throat is so dry, I want to drink. I must have a drink, just a little drink of cool water. We must go on, said the land Nushka, till we come to a well. Then we will drink. They went on along the trike, with their eyes burning and their throats as dry as sand on a stove. But presently, Van Nushka cried out joyfully. He saw a horse's hoof muck in the ground, and it was full of water, like a little well. Sister, sister, says he, the horse has made a little well for me with his great hoof, and now we can have a drink, and oh, but I am thirsty. Not yet, brother, says the land Nushka. If you drink from the hoof muck of a horse, he won't turn into a little fall, and that would never do. I'm so very thirsty, says Van Nushka, but he did, as his sister told him, and they walked on together under the burning sun. A little further on, Van Nushka saw a hoof muck of a cow, and there was water in it, glittering in the sun. Sister, sister, says Van Nushka, the cow has made a little well for me, and now I can have a drink. Not yet, brother, says the land Nushka. If you drink from the hoof muck of a cow, you will turn into a little calf, and that would never do. We must go on till we come to a well. There we will drink and rest ourselves. There will be trees by the well, and shadows, and we will lie down there by the quiet water, and cool our hands and feet, and perhaps our eyes will stop burning. So they went on further along the track, thus caught the bears all of their feet, and under the sun, they burned their heads and their little bare necks. The sun was high in the sky above them, and it seemed to Van Nushka that they would never come to the well. But when they had walked on and on, and he was nearly crying with thirst, only that the sun had dried up all his tears and burned them before they had time to come into his eyes. He saw another footprint. It was quite a tiny footprint divided in the middle, the footprint of a ship, and in it was the little drop of clear water, sparkling in the sun. He said nothing to his sister, nothing at all. But he went down on his hands and knees and drank that water, that little drop of clear water to cool his burning throat. And he had no sooner drunk it than he had turned into a little lamb. A little white lamb, said Marusia, with a black nose, said Vanya. A little lamb, said Olpita, a little lamb who ran round and round around the land Nushka, prisking and leaping with his little tail tossing in the air. Alain Nushka looked round for her brother, but could not see him. But there was the little lamb, leaping round her, trying to lick her face. And there in the ground was the print lapped by the ship's food. She guessed at one what had happened and burst into tears. There was a hay rig close by, and under the hay rig, Alain Nushka sat down and wept. The little lamb, seeing her so sad, stood gravely in front of her, but not for long, for he was a little lamb, and he could not help himself. However, said he felt, he had to leap and frisk in the sun and toss his little white tail. Presently a fine gentleman came, riding by on his big black horse. He stopped when he came to the hay rig. He was very much surprised at seeing a beautiful girl sitting there, crying her eyes out, while a white lamb frisked this way and that and played before her, and now and then ran up to her and licked the tears from her face with his little pink tongue. What is your name? says the fine gentleman. And why are you in trouble? Perhaps I may be able to help you. My name is the lamb Nushka, and this is my little brother Vanushka, whom I love, and she told him the whole story. Well, I can hardly believe all that, says the fine gentleman, but come with me, and I will dress you in fine clothes and set silver ornaments in your hair and bracelets of gold on your little brown wrists. And as for the lamb, he shall come to, if you love him, wherever you are, there he shall be, and you shall never be parted from him. And so a lamb Nushka took her little brother in her arms, and the fine gentleman lifted them up before him on the big black horse and galloped home with them across the plain to his big house not far from the river. And when he got home, he made a feast and married the lamb Nushka, and they lived together so happily that good people rejoiced to see them, and bad ones were jealous. And the little lamb lived in the house, never grew any bigger, but always frisked and played and followed the lamb Nushka wherever she went. And then one day, one the fine gentleman had ridden far away to the town by a new bracelet for a lamb Nushka. There came an old witch, ugly she was, with only one tooth in her head, and wicked as ever, went about the world doing evil to decent folk. She backed from a lamb Nushka and said she was hungry, and the lamb Nushka backed her to share her dinner, and she put the spell in the wine that the lamb Nushka drank so that the lamb Nushka fell ill, and before evening, when the fine gentleman came riding back, had become pale, pale as snow, and as thin as an old stick. My dear, says the fine gentleman, what is the matter with you? Perhaps I shall be back to tomorrow, says the lamb Nushka. Well, the next day, the gentleman rode into the fields, and the old hag came again while he was out. Would you like me to cure you? says she. I know a way to make you as well as ever you were, plumb you will be, and pretty again, before your husband comes riding home. And what must I do? says the lamb Nushka, crying to think her so ugly. You must go to the river and bath this afternoon, says the old witch. I will be there and put the spell on the water. Secretly, you must go, for if anyone knows whether you have gone, my spell will not work. So a lamb Nushka wrapped herself all around her head, and slipped out of the house and went to the river. Only the little lamb, Van Nushka knew where she had gone. He followed her, and tossing his little white tail. The old witch was waiting for her. She sprang out of the bushes by the river side, and seized the lamb Nushka, and tore off her pretty white dress, and fastened a heavy stone around her neck, and threw her from the bank into a deep place, so that she sank to the bottom of the river. Then the old witch, the wicked hat, put on the lamb Nushka's pretty white dress, and cast a spell, and made herself so like a lamb Nushka to look at, that nobody could tell the difference. Only the little lamb had seen everything that had happened. The fine gentleman came riding home in the evening, and he rejoiced when he saw his dear lamb Nushka while again with plumping cheeks, and a smile on her rosy lips. But the little lamb knew everything. He was sad and melancholy, and would not eat, and went every morning, and every evening to the river, and there wandered about the banks, and cried, Bah! Bah! And was answered by the sighing of the wind in the long wreaths. The witch saw that the lamb went out by himself every morning and every evening. She watched where he went, and when she knew, she began to hit the lamb, and she gave orders for the sticks to be cut, and the iron cauldron to be heated, and the steel knives made sharp. She sent the servant to catch the lamb, and she said to the fine gentleman, who thought all the time that she was the lamb Nushka. It is time for the lamb to be killed, and made into a tasty stew. The fine gentleman was astonished. What says he? You want to have the lamb killed? Why? You called it your brother when first I found it by the hiric in the plain. You were always giving it caracid and sweet words. You loved it so much that I was sick of the sight of it, and now you give orders for its throat to be cut. Truly says he, the might of woman is like the wind in summer. The lamb ran away when he saw that the servant had come to catch him. He heard the sharpening of the knives, and had seen the cutting of the wood, and the great cauldron taken from his place. He was frightened, and he ran away, and came to the river bank where the wind was sighing through the tall reeds. And there he sang a farewell song to his sister, thinking he had not long to live. The servant followed the lamb cunningly, and crept near to catch him, and heard his little song. This is what he sang. Ivanushka, little sister, they are going to slaughter me. They are cutting wooden faggots. They are hitting iron cauldrons. They are sharpening knives of steel. And Ivanushka, lamenting, answered the lamb from the bottom of the river. O my brother Ivanushka, a heavy stone is round my throat. Silken grass grows through my fingers. Yellow sand lies on my breast. The servant listened, and marveled at the miracle of the lamb singing, and the sweet voice answering him from the river. He crept away quietly, and came to the fine gentleman, and told him what he had heard. And they set out together to the river to watch the lamb, and listen and see what was happening. The little lamb stood on the bank of the river, whipping, so that his tears fell into the water, and presently he sang again. A lambushka, little sister, they are going to slaughter me. They are cutting wooden faggots. They are hitting iron cauldrons. They are sharpening knives of steel. And a lambushka answered him, lamenting from the bottom of the river. O my brother Ivanushka, a heavy stone is round my throat. Silken grass grows through my fingers. Yellow sand lies on my breast. The fine gentleman heard, and he was sure that the voice was the voice of his own dear wife. And he remembered how she had loved the lamb. He sent his servant to fetch man, and fishing nets, and nets of silk. The man came running, and they grabbed the river with fishing nets, and brought the nets empty to land. Then they tried with nets of fine silk, and as they drew them in, there was the lambushka, lying in the nets as if she were asleep. They brought her to the bank, and untied the stone from her white neck, and washed her in fresh water, and clothed her in white clothes. But they had no sooner done all this than she woke up, more beautiful than ever she had been before, though then she was pretty enough, god knows. She woke, and sprang up, and threw her arm round the neck of the little white lamb, who suddenly became once more her little brother Ivanushka, who had been so thirsty as to drink water from the hook mark of her ship. And Ivanushka laughed and shouted in the sunshine, and the fine gentleman wept tears of joy. And they all praised god and kissed each other, and went home together, and began to live as happily as before, even more happily, because Ivanushka was no longer a lamb. But as soon as they got home, the fine gentleman turned the old witch out of the house, and she became an ugly old hag, and went away to the deep woods, shaking as she went. And did she ever come back again? Asked Ivan. No, she never came back again, said old Peter. Once was enough. And what happened to Ivanushka when he grew up? He grew up as handsome as the lambushka was pretty, and he became a great hunter, and he married the sister of the fine gentleman, and they all lived happily together, and ate honey every day with white bread and new milk. End of section 15.