hammock between wooded mountains, and were winding their way through
a stony land where there was no sprig of grass, but where the wild
pomegranate bushes springing from crevices splashed their flame-like
blossoms over the rocks. The mountain-sides were so steep that no soil
clung to them, or if any did the first rushing rain washed it away.
Here and there were what are called pot-holes, where long ago some
whirling stream had kept a stone spinning round and round until it
had ground a hollow in the rock. The stream had dried up or found a
new course, but the hollow remained, like a stone bowl. Such soil as
caught there was not washed away, as on the slope. People living near
such pockets brought baskets and aprons full of earth and made precious
little gardens of the hollows. Zorka could look down from the road and
count the number of cabbages and potatoes growing in them.
Sometimes the travelers stopped at a spring to rest. Then Zorka
would take Mirko and Marko by turns in her lap. The little pigs slept
soundly, tired out by the rough trot over a rocky road instead of over
the sod that they were used to.
When night came Aunt Basilika knocked at the door of a friend who lived
near the road. A woman came out, throwing her arms wide in welcome. She
kissed Zorka and Basilika on both cheeks and pulled the baby joyfully
from the saddlebag.
There was room for the donkeys and the pigs in the sheepfold, which was
a snug cave in the side of the hill. Shepherd boys brought straw and
corn and water, and when the beasts were comfortable the family went
into the house.
Zorka looked at it in amazement, for it was very different from her
own home. That was built of wood with a shingled roof and a border of
carving below the eaves. This valley house was of the rough stones of
the hillside without mortar or plaster. The thatched roof was held
in place by logs and stones. There were no windows and there was no
chimney, but the smoke from the hearth, which was in the middle of the
floor, found its way through the loose weave of the thatch.
The boys built a wood fire and their mother put over it a pot of soup.
They were very poor people, but eager to share everything they had
with their friends. They gave them their mattresses, spreading Zorka’s
near the fire; they themselves slept on the ground.
The next night the market-goers camped on the edge of the town of
Podgoritza. Zorka fell asleep to the stamping and grunting of animals
and the jingling of bridles. At dawn every one was up, preparing
coffee and putting on holiday clothes. Aunt Basilika took a long black
skirt and white linen blouse from her saddlebags. Over them she wore
a long sleeveless coat of robin’s-egg blue with a border of pale gold
balls. She tied a dark handkerchief over her head, and on it set a
tiny skullcap of black silk. Most of the women wore bright blue coats
that had been a part of their wedding outfit. Their finery was shabby
and faded, for no one had had new clothes since the war. As for the
children who had outgrown their good garments, they were dressed for
the most part in gunny sacks sewed together with ravelings.
Zorka was better off. She wore a gray homespun dress and had an
orange-colored handkerchief over her head, and sandals of cowhide
on her feet. The journey from Kolashin had been so gay that she had
forgotten the purpose of it. Now it came over her with fright.
Mirko and Marko were restless and hungry. They rooted about, seeking
the juicy clover of home in the sparse grass and weeds of the
market place. Zorka watched them with an aching heart. If she saw a
business-like man approaching, she stood in front of the little pigs to
hide them or gathered them into her lap drawing her skirt over their
heads, determined not to sell them. But as the day wore on and no one
offered a price for them, she grew indignant. Were they not the most
beautiful pigs in the market? How could anyone pass them unnoticed?
As evening drew on she began to wonder what her father would say if
she had to take Mirko and Marko back with her. She knew that he was
counting on the money that they would bring. This was probably the last
chance before spring to sell them. How could they be fed during the
long winter?
Aunt Basilika had only a few fagots left. When those were sold she
would pack her bags with the winter store that she had purchased, and
she and Zorka would climb into the wooden saddles and begin the long
homeward journey that very night. How would the short fat legs of Mirko
and Marko make the uphill grade?
Twilight was already flooding the Plain of Podgoritza when a man rode
up looking for firewood. Seeing Basilika’s fagots he went toward her,
and then, peering through the dusk, exclaimed, ‘Why, it’s Basilika
Ivanova!’
He was an old friend of Zorka’s father, a well-to-do merchant of
Podgoritza. ‘And so this is Ivan’s daughter,’ he said, smiling at
Zorka; ‘but what fine pigs you have! Are they for sale?’
Zorka began to cry. ‘They’re not just pigs,’ she said. ‘They’re Mirko
and Marko, and I don’t want them killed.’
‘Oh, I don’t kill such wee piggies,’ said the merchant. ‘They will grow
to be grandfathers if you sell them to me; and I promise you they will
live in a fine pen.’
Zorka dried her eyes, and under her breath named the price that her
father had told her to ask. The merchant counted out silver and copper
coins in her hand. She stowed them carefully away in the pocket of her
petticoat, and then going down on her knees she hugged each little pig
and kissed him on the top of his silly head before their new owner
dropped them into his big saddlebags. They squealed wildly at first,
but when Zorka patted them they settled down quietly on the straw with
which the bags were lined.
The merchant took an orange and a shilling from his pocket. ‘Zorka
Ivanova,’ he said gently, ‘you have taken good care of your pigs, and
made them worth a fine price.’ With that he rode off in one direction,
and soon Zorka and her aunt had packed their possessions and were
turning in the other. Basilika went lightly, having sold her wares, but
Zorka climbed the mountain with a pocketful of money, an orange, and a
heartache.
TODOR’S BEST CLOTHES
The adventures of Todor began suddenly, one day, when he was going home
from school with a strapful of books over his shoulder. He had almost
reached home when a dog chasing a white kitten rushed madly from an
alley. Instantly Todor swung his load of books into the dog’s face. The
kitten escaped up a tree, but the angry dog sprang at Todor tearing his
coat and biting his arm. At that moment two men appeared pursuing the
dog, one with a pistol. There was a sharp crack and the dog rolled over
dead.
‘He was mad!’ cried the frightened men. ‘You’ve no time to lose, Todor.’
They rushed the boy home, and within an hour, dressed in his best
clothes, with his arm bandaged, he had boarded an express train for
Sofia. His father was with him. In Bulgaria it is the law that when
anyone is bitten by a mad dog, he must go straight to the Pasteur
Institute in Sofia, for treatment at government expense.
In Sofia, Todor was placed in a cottage near the hospital, where he was
to live while he took the treatment. The cottage was kept by a kind
woman named Martha, who had two boys of her own, Bogdan and Boris.
There Todor’s father left him and went back to his home in Sliven, a
town in Eastern Bulgaria.
Then began a strange and exciting life for Todor. Never before had
he been out of his home town; and now, except that he had to report
every day to the doctor, he had his time to himself and a great city
to explore. It was jolly to have Bogdan and Boris to talk things over
with in the evening, but they were in school most of the day. So Todor
wandered the streets of Sofia alone, amazed at the great buildings and
the shop windows full of beautiful things. But sometimes he glanced
uneasily at his clothes, for he realized that he was differently
dressed from the people about him. Usually, however, he was too much
absorbed in what he saw to think much of what he had on. The Sunday
suit that he wore was the fashion in Sliven. It had the wide, homespun
brown trousers almost like a Dutch boy’s; a close-fitting sleeveless
jacket of brocaded silk, in old rose, black and white, with handsome
silver buttons; a crimson sash and a jaunty brown woolen cap. When he
could find a flower he stuck it in his belt. In Sofia, where the men
and boys dress much as they do in America, Todor made a vivid spot of
color in the gray streets, and people noticed the fair-haired boy as
he wandered about alone. And in the end it was his clothes that helped
him most in his adventures.
One day he happened to be passing a schoolhouse just at recess time,
and stopped to watch the boys. He would never have dreamed that the
great beautiful building was a schoolhouse had it not been for the
game of ball that was going on. As he was watching it excitedly, the
ball flew over the wall, and Todor, springing into the air, caught it
dextrously and hurled it back. A cheer went up from the boys. ‘Come on
in and play!’ they cried, for they had seen his bright garments over
the wall. But just then the bell rang and the pupils stormed up the
steps, Todor with them, for he wanted to see the inside of that fine
school building. As the boys slipped into their classrooms, Todor was
left alone in the great corridor. He was stealing away shyly when one
of the masters caught sight of him.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you are from Sliven! So am I!’ and he invited Todor
into his classroom, where the pupils were studying a great raised
map of the Balkan Mountains. It was easy to see how they ran across
Bulgaria, nearly up to the Danube, and down into Macedonia and Greece.
When the master explained that Todor came from Sliven, his own home
town, every one wanted to find it on the map. There was the famous Pass
of the Wild Rose, too, where the attar of roses is distilled, and
where a great battle for Bulgarian freedom was fought; and there was
Tirnovo, the old capital of the kingdom. Todor went home much pleased
with this, his first adventure.
In the midst of Sofia there is a handsome house with bright awnings
and a beautiful lawn. It stands behind walls and large trees, but on
one side, in a curve of the street, there is a gate that stands always
open, and on each side of it a soldier in a sentry box. Over the gate
are the arms of Bulgaria, for the house is the home of Boris, the King.
Todor had a great desire to see the King, and spent hours on the corner
opposite the gate, waiting for him to appear, but in vain. One morning
he took up his post as usual, and as he did so a young man in gray
riding-clothes came down the drive on a bay horse. He was slight and
kindly-looking, with a clipped black moustache. As he turned into the
street, Todor, bright against the stone wall, caught his eye. He reined
in quickly, and as he did so his riding-crop slipped to the ground.
Todor sprang forward and handed it up to him. The man smiled pleasantly.
‘Aren’t you a Sliven boy?’ he asked.
‘I am, Sir,’ replied Todor.
‘And what are you doing here?’
‘Waiting to see the King come out, Sir.’
‘Well, I’m the King. Are you satisfied with me?’
‘God keep you, Sir,’ said the lad simply; ‘I had thought to see you
more bravely dressed.’
The King laughed. ‘That’s for the men of Sliven,’ he said. Then he
leaned down and shook hands with Todor, and was off.
Todor stood rooted to the spot. He had seen the King, and picked up his
riding-whip, had talked with him and shaken hands!
That was adventure enough for one day. He spent the afternoon in the
vacant lot behind the cottage, telling the boys of the neighborhood
about it.
One day, with a feeling of awe, Todor came in sight of a great white
church with gilded domes. It was all perfectly new, without a stain of
soot or age, and its marble and gold glistened in the sunlight under
the hot blue sky. Inside, the walls and ceilings were covered with
great paintings and mosaics. Todor tiptoed over the polished marble
floors, subdued by the lofty grandeur of the place; yet he did not feel
like saying his prayers in it. It was all so new that it seemed to him
as though God had not yet got used to it.
On his way home, passing a dusty square, he turned in at a gateway
in a wall to see what might be behind it. To his surprise he found
himself in a large, quiet courtyard, on one side of which was a tiny
low church. It was so low that the roof came down almost to the ground,
with only a row of small windows below the eaves. Through a covered
porch, steps led downward to the church, which was mostly underground.
Todor knew that it had been built long ago when the Turks had first
come into the land and had made it unlawful for Christians to build
their churches more than a few feet high. There were churches like that
all over Bulgaria. Often, because the people were forbidden to make the
exteriors beautiful, they put all the more loving thought inside. So in
this little church there were a beautiful screen of carved wood, lovely
lamps and soft, faded hangings on the walls. The stones of the floor
were worn by the knees of many generations.
The little church was empty now, and dusky in the waning light. Todor,
feeling at home there, knelt in a dim corner. An old man came in, moved
about and went out shutting the door behind him; but until Todor got up
to go, he did not realize that the old man was the sexton, and that he
had locked the church for the night and gone home for his supper.
Todor banged loudly and called for help, but there was no reply. He was
very near to tears as he went to the end of the porch and crouched
there, wondering what he should do. The church was almost dark now,
lonely and silent as a tomb. Suddenly a rustle in a red curtain, which
hung across a corner, brought his heart into his mouth. He was sure
that the curtain shook, and now that he fastened his eyes on it, was
there not a bright eye gazing at him through a slit? As he watched
breathlessly, a little old man suddenly popped out a bald head.
‘So you got locked in, too?’ he chuckled. He came out and stood before
Todor, a dry, wheezy, ragged, old man, the beggar who sat at the church
door during the day, asking for alms.
‘How can we get out?’ gasped Todor. ‘Help me!’
‘I don’t want to get out,’ said the beggar. ‘You see, I share the
Lord’s House with Him.’ With that he brought out a paper bag, and,
settling himself on the flags beside Todor, took out a lump of bread
and some cheese.
‘Do you sleep here?’ asked Todor, amazed.
‘Yes, in summer. It is a safe, quiet place; and the Lord, being a
good, kind God, does not object. He’s glad to save an old man from the
street.’
‘Look here!’ said Todor. ‘Put your hands on your knees and let me get
on your shoulder and see if I can open a window.’
The old man did as Todor requested, but the windows were as tight as if
they had been soldered, and an iron bar across the middle of each of
them would have prevented Todor from squeezing through even if he could
have opened them. The church was quite dark now, and after Todor had
gone back to the porch disconsolately, the beggar lighted a candle and
with a few drops of hot wax sealed it to the floor.
‘Have a pear,’ he said, kindly, wiping one on his dirty sleeve; and
Todor, who was thirsty, peeled it carefully with his pocket knife and
ate it with relish. The old man then began telling Todor stories of the
strange eastern city in which they were staying--stories of refugees
and bandits, of their secret meeting-places, and their caves in the
mountains, until Todor forgot that he would have to spend the night on
the cold stones. But as they were talking there came the shuffle of
feet on the steps outside, and the murmur of voices.
In a flash the beggar knocked over the candle. ‘Don’t tell on me, don’t
tell on me!’ he squeaked, as he flew to the curtain.
But Todor was already shaking the door. ‘Let me out!’ he cried. When
the door swung open, there stood Martha and Bogdan, under the light of
the sexton’s lantern.
[Illustration: TODOR AND THE SQUASHES]
How had they known where to look for him? It was because a policeman on
duty had noticed Todor’s gay costume as he turned in at the church that
evening. So, when Martha sent in an alarm, the policeman told her to go
first to the sexton.
As they went home through the hot, dusty night, Todor was careful to
say nothing about the beggar, for he was sure that the old man would be
turned out if it were known that he slept in the church.
Todor was so grateful to Martha for coming after him that next morning
he said, ‘Let me go to the market for you to-day. What do you need?’
‘Get me a basket of peppers,’ said Martha, ‘and a good pink squash--I
will bake it for you boys for supper.’
Todor knew how to select a squash, for he grew squashes himself. While
he was choosing one, an artist passed through the market.
‘What a picture!’ she cried, as she saw Todor in his rich costume.
Then, because she did not speak Bulgarian, she found an interpreter to
ask Todor to sit for his picture in a near-by garden; and Todor, who by
this time expected something new to happen every day, sent his basket
of peppers home by another boy, and tucking the pink squash under his
arm, set off willingly, wondering what this new adventure would be like.
By means of signs and a word or two, the artist made Todor understand
that she wished him to pose as if he were selecting a squash as he had
done in the market. But that was not Todor’s idea of a portrait. When
persons had their pictures taken, they sat down and looked properly
dignified. He was willing to sit against the wall and hold the squash
in his lap, though to his mind a squash had no place in a picture. But
that is how the artist finally drew him. And what did Todor care when
he saw the five _lev_ piece in his hand at the end of the sitting?
With a bright smile of thanks he raced off to buy something to take to
his mother when he should go back to Sliven.
And now, if Todor could see himself in an American book, he would
probably think it the greatest adventure of all.
KOSSOVO DAY
It was Kossovo Day, the 28th of June. Since sunrise people had been
dancing the _kola_. Round and round they went, holding one another’s
hands high in the air and stepping backward and forward with a swaying
movement, as they turned in a great circle to the sound of a drum and a
fiddle.
Any one could take part in the _kola_ when he liked. He had only to
break into the ring, seize the hands of those next to him, and fall
into step; or if he had gone round until he was dizzy, he could drop
out as suddenly as he pleased, and fling himself on the grass to watch
the fun.
From every little hamlet in the hills the people had come in their best
clothes, bringing baskets of cherries or cheese or mushrooms to sell in
the town; so there were always new ones to take part when the others
were tired.
Peter and Pavlo had started early, in fresh white linen suits, with gay
girdles. Between them they carried a great basket of cherries slung on
a pole. The money from the sale of the cherries they must take home,
but their grandmother had given them each two _groschen_ to spend on
sweets.
First, however, they went to the schoolhouse, where the children were
assembled to march in procession to the church. Mary was there too.
She had managed to come, although she had had to bring the baby with
her. Mary’s parents were Serbian, but she had been born in America and
had gone to school there until she was ten years old. That was nearly
a year ago. Then her father had brought the family back to his Serbian
home to see his old mother. She had written to him in his American
home: ‘The war is over. I live alone. Before I die, bring the wife and
child, whom I have never seen,’ and she had sent money for the passage.
So Mary’s father had taken her mother and her across the sea. There
was no little brother then. He was born soon afterwards, and not many
months later Mary’s grandmother had died, and left the cottage and the
fruit orchard to her son. Now it seemed as if they might stay in Serbia.
[Illustration: PETER AND PAVLO]
Mary was not happy. She was homesick for her friends and her school
life in Ohio, where she had always lived. Gutcha, her Serbian home, was
a little mountain village where every one led a simple, out-door life,
raising cattle and sheep and enough corn to make bread for the family.
The house in which Mary lived was better than most, for it had a roof
of tiles instead of thatch; the floors were of wood, and there was a
built-in stove of brick and cement. But in Ohio Mary had lived in a
flat with a bathroom, an ice-box and a gas stove in the kitchen. All
those comforts she missed, and it often seemed to her that they did
things in a poor way in Serbia. Most of all she missed Mamie Barnes.
She and Mamie had begun life together in Kindergarten, and had been in
the same class ever since. Here in Gutcha Mary did not go to school
regularly, because of the baby. She adored him and had almost sole care
of him, but that care kept her out of school.
The girls in Gutcha were shy and gentle, and stood in awe of Mary
because of her fine clothes and because she spoke English. She was the
only girl in Gutcha who did not own a distaff and knitting needles. All
the others spent most of their time on the hillsides with the sheep,
spinning and knitting the wool into stockings. They grew quiet and
dreamy, and did not play in the romping way that had made life a joy in
America. Mary liked the boys better. They were ready for fun, and they
were not so rough and teasing as American boys. Besides, they honestly
admired her.
Mary made herself ready for the Kossovo celebration with great care.
She had heard that it was the Serbian Fourth of July and she hoped that
there might be firecrackers and ice cream. She put on her white dress
with embroidered ruffles, which had been bought in a department store
in America, and which her mother had let down. She tied one big bow in
her blue sash, topped her dark curls with another, and put on her white
straw hat. She wore long white stockings and white shoes, and looked
like any little American girl who was going to Sunday School. She had
put a clean slip on the baby, and brown sandals with his white socks.
In the school yard Mary waited with the other children. The crowd of
little girls smiled at her but stood apart, abashed by her elegance.
They did not know how sweet they themselves looked under their
pale yellow kerchiefs, in their beautiful homespun linen chemises
embroidered on sleeves and front, their heavy skirts and silk aprons,
all of such good stuff that only people of wealth could have bought
them in America. They looked upon Mary as a princess, in her store-made
clothes; but in reality she was a lonely little girl, longing to be
friends and not knowing why the other girls did not like her. She felt
that somehow she was different.
‘Hello!’ cried Peter, briskly, bursting in upon the girls, and Mary
in her heart blessed him for it. The church bell was ringing now; or
rather, since the bell had been carried off during the war, the priest
came to the church door and banged on a pan with a great key, which
did just as well. The church was so full that none of the children
could set foot in it, but they all stood in a line on the grass, and
caught the gleam of the women’s yellow handkerchiefs and the music of
strong voices. After that they were free to go where they would and see
the fun.
Mary put the baby on the grass and joined the dancers. She liked the
plaintive Serbian music; but she felt that it was sad, and she longed
for something rollicking and gay. How she had loved to spin about on
the sidewalk with Mamie, to the rattle of a hurdy-gurdy!
She soon dropped out from the ring and sat down with a group of girls
to listen to an old man who was singing and playing the _gousle_.
The _gousle_ is an instrument like a one-stringed fiddle. It has but
a few notes and those are mournful, but when it is well played, to
the airs of the old Serbian songs, there is something stirring and
heart-searching in it. Mary felt it without being able to explain it
to herself. She was fascinated and troubled, for though she could not
understand all that the old man sang, it seemed to her to be the tale
of a great disaster connected with the Plain of Kossovo.
‘What is Kossovo?’ she asked the girls about her. Eagerly they
explained, ‘It was a great battle with the Turks, in which the Serbs
were beaten.’
‘Did you say _beaten_?’ exclaimed Mary, shocked.
‘Terribly,’ said Draga. ‘The King was killed, and all the country
conquered.’
‘But why, then----’ began Mary, but stopped, afraid of hurting their
feelings; evidently they saw nothing strange in making it the chief
holiday of the year. Later, on the way home, she stopped short in the
street with the baby in her arms.
‘We don’t seem to do things right in Serbia,’ she said with a troubled
face.
‘Why not?’ snapped Peter and Pavlo, who had come round the corner.
‘What’s the matter? Why?’