'Oh, you little dove, do take the medicine, and you will fee_A China cup, and other stories for children

Transcriber's Notes:

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by

=equal signs=.

Small uppercase have been replaced with regular uppercase.

Blank pages have been eliminated.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the

original.

THE CHILDREN'S

LIBRARY

[Illustration]

A CHINA CUP

AND

OTHER STORIES FOR CHILDREN

FELIX VOLKHOVSKY

_ILLUSTRATED BY MALISCHEFF_

LONDON

T. FISHER UNWIN

1892

SECOND EDITION

[Illustration]

CONTENTS

PAGE

I. A CHINA CUP 3

II. HOW SCARLET-COMB THE COCK

DEFENDED THE RIGHT 37

III. THE TINY SCREW 65

IV. THE DREAM 85

V. BROWNY 115

VI. THE OLD SWORD'S MISTAKE 125

VII. 'MY OWN' 141

VIII. THE TALE ABOUT HOW ALL

THESE TALES CAME TO LIGHT 167

[Illustration]

A CHINA CUP

A waggon drove to the great pit dug in the clay--not common clay, but

such as china vessels are made of. A man with an iron spade jumped

from the waggon; he entered the pit and began to dig the clay. After

the first stroke of the spade a little lump fell out of the native

ground, and with a bitter, plaintive murmur rolled down. Nobody heard

the murmur; it seemed to the workman that the Lump in rolling down made

a slight noise, whereas it was groaning: it was hard to be torn away

from mother earth. 'All is over,' it whispered; 'oh, how hard it is to

live in the world!'

The workman took it up on his spade with the other clay, and threw it

into the waggon. 'Oh!' groaned the bit of clay from pain, as it fell on

the bottom of the waggon; 'not only was I torn away from my mother, but

thrown far away from her. Alas! is there any one more unhappy in this

world than I? I should like to die!'

But the Lump did not die. The workman had soon filled up his waggon,

jumped in himself, and drove away, carrying it to the china factory.

It was pretty well while they were going along an even place, but when

they went down a steep mountain-side, the horse ran fast, and our

Lump was jolted, thrown from side to side, and knocked against the

waggon. Nor did all its torments end then. As soon as it was brought

to the china factory, it was thrown with other clay into a large tub

with water in it, and it felt with horror how it began gradually to

get soft, and to be transformed into a sort of soft mud. It had no

time to recover, as it was taken out with a great ladle and poured

somewhere--it was into the funnel of the great millstones. The driver

shouted, the horses went on, pulled one end of a bar, which was

fastened by the other end to a big axle standing erect in the middle

of the great millstones; the bar again turned the axle to which the

upper millstone was fastened, and the millstones began to grind the

water-softened clay, crushing its smallest particles. Our Lump no

longer existed, but all its little particles which before formed it

were now like clay-jelly, and kept close together.

Ah, how they suffered! The awful millstone pressed upon them with

its whole weight--squeezed, flattened, ground them. They shrivelled,

groaned, cried from pain and said: 'Oh-o-o! what a torture! it is all

over with us!'

But that was not all. After the grinding the clay-jelly was poured by

means of gutters into the empty wooden tub to settle. There the hard

particles, heavier than water, sank.... On the bottom was the sand,

next the reddish clay, mixed with iron-rust, then the coarser parts of

the white clay, and finally its lightest particles, quite free from

all other mixture. All the particles of our Lump happened to be of the

same weight and to be nicely ground; they sank together and formed

again the same Lump, only soft, delicate, and free from all unnecessary

admixture. It was very nice, of course, but the little Lump was so

tired from all it suffered, so exhausted, that it did not wish to live

in the world. 'I would rather death would come!' it said.

Death, however, did not come. A workman came instead, poured off the

water which was on the surface of the clay, cut the clay to the bottom,

separated it into layers, and assorted them, so that the upper, more

delicate layer was for the best china vessels, and the lower for the

coarser plates. As our Lump was in the upper layer, it was taken to a

workman who made the finest vessels.

The workman took our Lump, put it into the middle of a round table

which turned on its centre, made this table spin round with his feet,

and at the same time pressed the clay here and there till he had made

a coarse cup without a handle. The workman then, with an instrument

like a knife, began to turn the cup, till it became a fine, fine one.

He then handed it to his neighbour, who put a nice little handle to

it. 'Well,' thought the Lump, transformed now into a cup, 'it is not

so bad. I suffered indeed, but what a beauty I am now!' ... and the

Cup looked self-contentedly around. She did not rejoice long. She was

soon put with others into one of the pots of particular form called

'muffles,' and the muffles were put into a furnace, which began to heat

the Cup by scorching degrees to make it red hot. 'Oh, how hot it is!'

stammered the poor Cup, perspiring, crying, and groaning at once. 'Oh,

what a torture! Oh, how hard it is to live in the world! I should like

to die!'

Still, she did not die. She was taken from the furnace, watered with a

certain mixture, burnt once more. A charming bouquet and garland were

then painted on her, and the Cup did not recognise herself. 'Ah, how

happy I am!' said she to herself; 'it was worth while to suffer all

that I suffered. I am the most beautiful here, and there is and will be

no one happier.'

Very soon the Cup went from the factory to the shop. She was delighted

to see the fine hall with large windows and nice glass cases. She

enjoyed the society of china cups, teapots, plates, and all sorts of

most beautiful things.

'Here,' thought she, 'they can appreciate my beauty!' and she

immediately addressed her neighbour, a big, round teapot: 'Please, sir,

have you been long here?'

'Yes,' answered the teapot gruffly, knocking with his coarse lid.

'And do you think there was ever before a cup with such fine ornament

and delicate painting as I have?'

'Ho-ho-ho-ha-ha!' ... laughed the big teapot. 'Just listen!' shouted he

to his companions, as big and coarse as himself; 'this damsel is asking

whether there is in the world a beauty like her?... O-ho-ho-ho!'

'Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!' burst all the big teapots in laughter, holding their

sides with their handles.

Our Cup was offended, and ashamed to tears.

'What are you laughing at?' whispered she in confusion.

'And how can we help laughing?' exclaimed her neighbour; 'you think too

much of yourself; and what are you good for? To spend all your life on

some nice shelf; you need cheapness and solidity to be of some use. And

as for your ornament, look to your right, on the third shelf; there are

more elegant ones there than you!'

The Cup looked to the right, and would have grown green from envy if

she could have changed colour. There were standing fine cups on small

feet; such delicate, fine cups, like white, pale, and pink rose petals!

... the beautiful bouquets, the prettiest heads, the finest gold lace,

with black and green ornamentation, were painted upon them. These cups

were also proud of their beauty, and as they were more beautiful than

their new companion, they looked at her with contempt and haughtiness.

In the china factory the Cup thought herself the most beautiful in

the world, and was quite happy; and now she was forced not only to

acknowledge that there were more beautiful ones, but to listen to the

mocking words and endure the most offensive looks. Envy, vexation,

shame, tormented her, and she would fain run away somewhere, yet she

could not move from the spot. This helplessness added still to her pain

and anger. She would like to have sunk into the earth. 'Ah,' thought

she, 'why did I not die before! Why does death not come now!'

Death did not come, however. The shop door opened, a fine lady, with a

richly-dressed young girl of about ten years of age, came in.

'We want a nice cup, not too expensive,' said the lady to the shopman

at the counter.

The shopman took our Cup and some others from the shelf and put them

on the counter. Oh, what our Cup felt at that moment! She was displayed

with half a dozen of her companions, every one of whom thought herself

more beautiful than the others, and was proud of it. Suppose these

elegant purchasers should give the preference not to her, but to one of

her conceited companions? She felt as if on burning coals. The little

girl stretched her hand to one of our Cup's neighbours, and the Cup

trembled with anxiety. But the little purchaser only touched the rival

of our Cup and finally took the latter. 'This one, mamma,' said the

child, and the mother bought her. Oh, with what a pride shone now this

plaything, and how haughtily she looked at her companions! Her beauty

is now openly acknowledged; she is preferred to others! She was bright

with happiness, and slightly trembled when the shopman took her from

the counter to wrap her in paper.

'Ah, how happy I am!' said the Cup in the evening, when fragrant tea

was poured in, and all who were sitting at the tea-table admired her;

'of course there is and will be nobody happier than I.'

Just at this moment the pretty little girl who had chosen her at the

shop came running in from the garden. She was very thirsty. She seized

the Cup and took a sip at once, notwithstanding that they cried to her

that the tea was too hot. The Cup certainly was not to blame that the

girl from her own carelessness had scalded her mouth, and the girl

treated her unjustly. 'Oh, you nasty Cup!' cried she, and threw her to

the floor.

Crash! ... and the pieces of the poor innocent Cup tinkled plaintively,

and drops of tea, like big tears, trickled on to the floor from her.

The footman came, gathered the pieces of the broken Cup and threw them

away into the backyard on the rubbish heap. There she was with the

bits of old leather, broken glass, rusty pieces of tin, and a pair of

decaying cucumbers. She shivered from contact with the dirt, which she

had never experienced since she was a nice cup, and she felt sick from

the unpleasant odour. 'Oh, how unhappy I am!' said the broken Cup. 'All

is over. I have nothing to expect from life. I have only to die!'

The Cup did not lie long in the rubbish heap. Early, early the next

morning, when all were yet asleep in the house, there came into the

backyard a poor, wrinkled, dirty, ragged, old woman. She had on her

back a bag, and a big stick with a hook on its end in her hand. She was

a rag-gatherer. She dug into the heaps with her hook, picked out of

them the bones, rags, paper, nails, pieces of glass, and such things

thrown away as seemed to the poor woman of some use. After having

filled up the bag, the rag-gatherer went home, sorted its contents,

and then took the bones to the shoeblacking maker, rags and paper to

the pasteboard maker, the iron to the dealer in old iron, and the glass

to the glass factory. All these places were far from each other and

from her lodging, and the poor woman was exceedingly tired in going

from one place to another. She gained thus a few copecks,[1] without

which neither she nor her sick granddaughter would have had anything to

eat. On the following morning the old woman went again to dig among the

heaps.

[1] A copeck (in Russian _kopéika_) is a Russian copper; 100

copecks form one _rouble_. A rouble is worth 2s. 0-2/5d. in

English money.

Coming near the rubbish heap where the broken Cup was lying, the

woman began to work with her hook, seeking with her old, tearful,

short-sighted eyes something worth having. She had already dug up all

that she wanted, when her hook struck against something hard; the old

woman knew by this sound that there was something like glass in the

heap. She stooped down and took up a fragment of the Cup with a nice

nosegay on it.

'What fine flowers!' whispered she; 'I will take it home for Mary--a

nice plaything for her--I must take it.'

The good old woman smiled, as she thought of her beloved granddaughter,

called Mary. She began to search again among the rubbish, and found

that there were many fine pieces, and those not too small. 'Oh, the

pieces are all here,' said she; 'it is possible perhaps to cement them

together.' And taking all the bits she put them by themselves into the

pocket of her worn-out petticoat.

It was as dark as in a cellar in the pocket of the old woman, and as

oppressively warm as in an uncared-for hospital-room in summer; there

were besides an old onion and the crumbs of spoiled, ill-smelling

cheese. The broken Cup felt still more sick at heart than before; she

shivered; her broken pieces tinkled plaintively at every step the woman

took, and she thought, 'Oh, what suffering! I should like to die!'

She did not die. It was light when the old woman came to a large brick

house six stories high, near a market-place, in a narrow, dirty lane.

She entered through a dirty passage the courtyard, surrounded on all

sides with buildings, passed through a gloomy basement door down to the

ground-floor, where her lodging was. It was a dark, cheerless room,

with small windows high above the brick floor. In every corner of the

room there was a whole family of beggars. The old woman approached a

heap of rags, groaning, removed from her shoulder the bag with her

day's gains in it, and sat down on an old pine candle-box, turned

upside down, near the rags; she then took from her pocket all the

pieces of the Cup, and put them on another box which stood there for a

table. The first thing our Cup now heard was a harsh, noisy scolding

from the farthest corner of the room; everybody in this beggars' haunt

was so accustomed to it that nobody paid any attention. 'Oh,' thought

the Cup, 'this is too much! In what company am I! What rough people

there are! Oh, there is surely nobody in the world more unhappy than I!

I would like to die as soon as possible!'

The rags in the corner now moved; under them was lying the sick,

sallow, emaciated darling of the old woman. She looked at her

grandmother with her wearied eyes, and nothing interested her.

'Here is a piece of _pryáneek_, Mary, which I brought for you,' said

the old woman, taking out a piece of _pryáneek_, which she had bought

for a copeck.

This was a cake of white, stone-like consistency, supposed to represent

a horse, though it may be doubted whether four stumps instead of feet,

a gilded head and a crimson tail, would give a really good idea of

one. There was indeed enough flour in it, but little sweetness; still

it was a thing as much to delight the heart of a Russian child as a

gingerbread cat to rejoice the heart of an English one.

The girl looked at it, but shook her head, and did not eat it; she did

not even touch it.

'Why don't you take it, Mary? Do take it, dear, such a nice piece of

_pryáneek_; look!'

And the grandmother held up the present, turning it round to show all

its beauty. The girl looked up once more at the cake, and then at her

grandmother, without moving her head.

'I am so sore!' she whispered feebly.

'What ails you?' asked the old woman.

'Everything ails me,' said the sick girl softly, and two big tears

rolled slowly down her cheeks.

The broken Cup looked at all this, and was very sorry, and her pieces

tinkled plaintively together, and then she felt ashamed that she had

thought herself so unhappy while there was in the world plenty of

sorrow far greater than her own. The girl heard the tinkling, and

silently looked up to see what it was that was tinkling so on the box.

She noticed the beautiful flowers on the broken pieces of the Cup; her

eyes brightened by degrees, and she whispered softly:

'Give it to me, grandmamma.'

'Take it, take it, darling! I brought it home for you.'

Mary took the pieces in her hands, trembling from weakness, and

began to turn them over and over, admiring them. She had never any

playthings, and therefore the pretty pieces seemed to her so much the

finer. The more she looked at them the more her eyes brightened, and

at last she smiled. The old woman had not for a long time seen such an

expression of pleasure on the worn-out face of her poor granddaughter,

and the feeble smile of the sick child rejoiced her to tears.

'Oh,' thought the Cup, 'I never expected to give to any one so much

pleasure after having been broken to pieces! And I am happier, indeed,

than I was in the rich house where everybody at the tea-table admired

me!'

'Mary, you know, we shall cement the cup; indeed we shall do it! It

will be a pretty cup,' whispered the old woman.

Mary became more cheerful, and the Cup thought: 'Ah, it is possible

I am really good for something! It seems to me I was in too great a

hurry to die; it is worth while living in the world.'

On the next day the old woman came home after her day's work with a

little _toóyes_, a sort of cylindrical vessel of birch bark, in which

there was a handful of curd and an egg. These she had received from

some kind-hearted cook.

'You see, Mary, we are going to cement the Cup!' said she, sitting down

on her box.

Mary had been groaning and fretting all the day and night, but now

she smiled again. The old woman broke the egg, poured it into an old

wooden basin, placed on the box some curd, mixed lime with it, and,

kneading all together with the white of egg, she made a thick cement.

Smearing the edges of the pieces of our Cup with the mixture, the old

woman pressed them together, and placed the Cup carefully in a hot

oven, that the cement might harden and become proof against water or

anything else. It was hot in the oven for the Cup--dreadfully hot! but

she was ready to suffer anything to be the same complete beautiful cup

as before. 'Oh, how happy I am!' thought she, awaiting with inward

trembling the end of her trials in the oven. 'All is going on well; I

will live again!'

Mary in the meantime grew worse: she fretted, groaned, and complained

with bitter tears.

'Oh, grandmamma, how I ache! how I ache!'

'Oh, my poor darling!' said the old woman, sobbing, while hot tears

rolled down her wrinkled, unwashed face; 'I cannot tell what to do for

you, my dear pet.'

In the same room with the old woman, in another corner, there lived a

beggar, an old discharged soldier of the time of the Russian Emperor

Nicholas, when the discipline was so inhumanly severe and the term of

service lasted a whole quarter of a century! He had been in the wars,

fought bravely, and now he was quite alone in the wide world. The

bullets were still in his body, old age prevented him from working,

and he was obliged to get by begging here and there a few copecks. He

became accustomed to sorrow; but now it grieved him to see the misery

of the old woman and the sufferings of the little girl.

'You are foolish,' said he to the old woman; 'why do you cry, as if the

child was dying? You must not do it! Go rather for the physician.'

'Will the physician come?' exclaimed the old woman. 'You are indeed

like an innocent child, _Nikítich_.[2] Will the physician come to such

a dirty place?'

[2] Pronounce 'Neekeéteech.' The reader should rather be

told here that the Russian fashion of calling a person, when

addressing him or her, is not by his or her surname, but by

the Christian name, with the addition of his or her father's

name, somewhat altered in a way to express 'son of' or

'daughter of' such-a-one; for example--Iván Nikítich (John,

son of Nikíta). Among common people and among friends they

address only in one's Christian name without the addition of

the father's name ('_ót-chest-vo_'); but if, in addressing a

common person, you wish to express some deference, you use

only the 'ótchestvo,' without the person's Christian name; for

example, 'Nikítich' instead of 'Iván Nikítich.' Such is the

case in our tale.

'And why should he not come? One will not come, another will not come,

but some one perhaps will come at last. There, I know a physician,

Kótov, a nice gentleman! He always gives me a glass of tea and five

copecks. He will not let me go without giving me something. "How do you

do, Nikítich?" says he always to me. I tell you, go to him. Ask him;

you needn't care.'

'Yes, at his home he will receive me perhaps, but he will not come

here. No, we have nothing to do with physicians. I cannot afford to buy

medicine, and very likely they will not even let me into the house. No,

I dare not.'

'Well, if you dare not, I will go myself.'

At these words the old wounded soldier took his stick and hobbled away

to the physician's.

The physician did come. He was a very good man, only he had the

habit of speaking in an angry tone and even shouting, so that some

were afraid of him. He examined the girl a long time, put his ear to

her back and chest, tapped both with his fingers, spat in disgust,

and complained angrily of the dirt and unwholesome air of the room.

He ordered that nothing but broth be given to the girl, wrote a

prescription on a bit of paper, and said that the medicine would be

given gratuitously at the apothecary's.

In the evening the old woman brought the bottle with the medicine,

poured some into a wooden spoon and presented it to her granddaughter.

The girl shook her head feebly and turned away. She was afraid of the

medicine; she thought it was something so disagreeable, and for nothing

in the world would she take it.

'Ah me!' said her grandmother, sighing, 'why won't you take it? It's

too bad! What will the physician say? He ordered it and you will not

take it. Wait, you will see what will happen to disobedient children!'

The girl was frightened; she began to sob, and when her grandmother

offered her the spoon, she covered her mouth with her hand and hid her

face in her pillow.

In the morning the old woman took our Cup out of the oven. Oh, how glad

was our Cup when the old woman, looking all over her, said to herself,

'Oh, I see it is as good as new now!' Just at this moment Mary called

for her grandmother and asked for a drink. The old woman went with the

newly-cemented Cup for some water, and as she held her hand over the

tub, the Cup saw herself in the water as in a mirror. Alas! what did

she see there? In many places were ugly cracks; the cement, applied

by an unskilful hand, formed spots and patches. 'Oh,' groaned the

Cup--'oh, how ugly I am! It would have been better for me to perish in

the rubbish heap. Ah, now I would like to die as soon as possible!'

She did not die, however. The old woman was obliged to put her in haste

on the window-sill, for just then the physician entered the room.

'How many spoonfuls of medicine did she take?' asked he angrily.

'She did not take any at all, sir. What shall I do with her? Such an

obstinate, silly girl; she is not willing to take any; what shall I

do?' answered the old woman.

'What? How does she dare? What does she mean? Give me the spoon!' cried

the doctor.

At these words Mary screamed, her eyes opened wide from fear, and she

covered her head with the bedclothes. The doctor turned once more to

the old woman.

'And did she take the broth?' he asked.

'But, my good sir, where should we get money for the broth?' said the

rag-gatherer, with tears in her eyes.

'Well, why did you ask me to come if you did not intend to do what I

ordered?' He then took at once a crushed three-rouble bank note from

his pocket, threw it angrily on the box which served as a table, and

turned away. When he reached the door he turned his head, and, flushed

with excitement, said:

'All the medicine must be taken by to-morrow, and the broth must be

ready, and that's the end of it!'

When the old woman saw the three roubles in her hand she could hardly

realise her good fortune and believe in her happiness. Just think,

three roubles! For three years or so she had never had more than

thirty copecks at one time, and now she had three roubles!

'God grant you every happiness, our benefactor!' repeated the poor

woman over and over again.

As for Mary, she grew worse and worse. She groaned, her dilated eyes

shone with the fire of fever, her lips became parched and black.

'Oh, you little dove, do take the medicine, and you will feel better,'

entreated the old woman; but Mary obstinately refused to take any.

Seeing the sufferings of the poor girl, the rag-gatherer suddenly

clasped her gray head with her hands.

'Oh my God! what am I to do with her? what am I to do with her?' wept

she in despair. 'She will die, I am sure, through her own foolishness.

How hard it is to see her suffering just because she will not take a

little medicine.'

The Cup saw and heard all this, and once more she felt ashamed of

having thought herself unhappy for not being as beautiful as formerly.

'Is this misery?' thought she now of her own appearance; '_there_ is

misery indeed!' and the little Cup was herself ready to cry for pity.

In the meantime the poor woman dried her tears and approached her sick

grandchild.

'Do you know that I have mended the little Cup?' she said.

The face of the little girl brightened, and a faint smile played upon

it. 'Let me see it,' lisped she.

The grandmother showed her the little Cup, and Mary's face expressed as

much rapture as if she saw some masterpiece of beauty. The poor child

had seen during her life so few beautiful things, that the mended Cup

with the pretty nosegay on her transported her with delight.

'And wouldn't you take the medicine out of the Cup?' asked the old

woman, in an uncertain, coaxing tone of voice.

The girl made no reply, but smiled again.

'Well, will you take it out of the pretty little Cup?'

'I will,' answered Mary, in an almost inaudible voice.

The little Cup was standing at that moment on the window-sill, and was

trembling with joy; hitherto no one had loved her so deeply as Mary

did. Was it not for her sake alone that Mary consented to take the

medicine? Perhaps the little girl will recover; perhaps she, the Cup,

will have saved a human life. 'Oh, what a beautiful thing it is to

live,' said the Cup to herself; 'never before was I so happy!'

* * * * *

It was a glorious summer day when Mary went the first time after her

dangerous illness to take breath in the open air. She was still thin

and pale, but her large eyes were bright, and she looked happy. She

was sitting in the nearest square, under a big green tree, with her Cup

in both her hands. The little girl was evidently eager to have the Cup

always with her; she would not part with her treasure. The Cup felt

herself also happy--nay, happier than ever--although she was now broken

and spotted with ugly cement patches. She was happy and proud to be the

best friend of the little Mary whom she had helped to restore to life

and health.

[Illustration]

HOW SCARLET-COMB THE COCK DEFENDED THE RIGHT

All this happened long, long ago, in the days when birds and beasts

could talk in human speech, and the Polish magnates went about in

long '_kountoushi_'[3]--coats embroidered with gold and silver, with

sleeves slung on behind--and possessed serfs. Perhaps you do not know

what a 'serf' was in the old times? Well, a serf was a person just like

the rest of us, only he was bound to the land by law; he had not the

right to go and live in any other place, and if the land was sold, he

was sold with it; he tilled the land, though not for his own profit,

but for the profit of the landowner. It was not only in Poland that

there used to be these serfs and landlords who owned them, but in all

countries--in ours as well as every other; and everywhere the serfs

had a hard time of it. Those landlords who had any conscience and

commonsense, and who were not in any great need of money, made their

serfs work for them a certain part of their time, and bring them eggs,

flax, etc.; the rest of their time and goods the serfs could dispose

of as they thought fit. Others regarded their peasants as beasts of

burden, belonging to them body and soul; they forced the peasants to

work for them as much as was possible, and thought they had a right to

all the peasants' property. But whether the serf-owner was personally

good or bad, it was a loathsome thing in itself that one human being

should own another.

[3] The plural of the Polish word '_koúntoush_.'

One day a Polish '_Pan_' (nobleman) of this kind was riding through

a village on his land. The green sleeves of his bright-coloured

_koúntoush_ streamed back from his shoulders, fluttering in the breeze;

his fine dappled horse stepped impatiently under its rider, tossing

flakes of white foam from its mouth; and Pan Podliásski himself glanced

haughtily to the right and left. The wretched, bare look of the

peasants' huts and ruinous farmyards did not distress him at all; in

Pan Podliásski's opinion a serf was a serf for nothing else but to be

always ragged, dirty, and miserable. Suddenly, as he passed one of the

huts, the landlord raised his eyebrows in angry surprise; in the bare

and filthy yard stood a first-rate grindstone.

'Where did a rascally serf get such a capital grindstone?' he thought;

and turning to his steward, who was riding behind with two or three

noble retainers, he asked: 'Whose yard is this?'

'Stanislas Kogoútek's, most illustrious Pan,' respectfully answered the

steward.

'Why is the grindstone here?'

'It does not belong to the manor; we have not such a good grindstone,'

replied the steward, understanding the mistake of the magnate, who

supposed the grindstone to be his, and to have come into the peasant's

yard by chance.

'Here! _Khlop!_' (serf!), cried Pan Podliásski.

A middle-aged peasant, bareheaded, barefooted, and wearing nothing but

a shirt and trousers of coarse sacking, ran out of the hut at this

summons. He approached his master, bowing humbly, fell on his knees

before him, bowed to the ground, and, rising, kissed his stirrup, after

which he bowed again.

'Whose is the grindstone?' asked the landlord, frowning.

Kogoútek's terror increased, and his eyes glanced round in agitation;

he realised how foolish he had been not to hide the grindstone from his

master's eyes.

'Whose is the grindstone, _psia krew_?'[4] cried the magnate angrily.

[4] A Polish term of abuse; literally, blood (or race) of a

dog.

'Mine, most illustrious Pan,' answered Kogoútek, trembling with fear.

'How dare you, you rascal, when I myself haven't such a grindstone, the

steward says?'

'I earned it, please your honour,' stammered Kogoútek faintly.

'_Earned it_.... What next!' exclaimed Pan Podliásski, amazed at the

peasant's insolence, and reddening with anger. 'How dare you say that,

when you yourself are my property, not only all your work; do you

hear, you dog? Take it up to the manor, and give this scoundrel a good

lesson,' he added, turning to the steward.

The unfortunate peasant knew what a 'good lesson' meant, and flung

himself, with a piteous cry, at the feet of his master's horse. But

the magnate shook the reins and galloped off with his followers.

The next morning the grindstone was transferred to the manor yard, and

the wretched Kogoútek was flogged in the manor stables.

Humiliated, crushed under the sense of injustice and lacerated with the

whip, the unhappy peasant crept home and sank down on a bench with a

groan.

'What is the matter with our master?' asked the young cock,

Scarlet-Comb, of his mother, as they strolled about the yard with the

white hen Top-knot and the old cock.

'Why, didn't you see that they took away the grindstone that he had

worked so hard for, and then thrashed him for nothing besides?'

Scarlet-Comb was still a very young cock; his grand tail-feathers had

not yet grown, so he did not know how cruel and unjust people can be.

His mother's words showed him this for the first time. He spread his

wings and craned his little neck as if he would shout out what he had

just heard to all the world; but a spasm in the throat prevented him

from uttering a sound. When, however, his first burst of grief and

indignation had somewhat abated, he again appealed to his mother.

'Well, and what will happen now, mother?'

'What? Why, nothing. Pan Podliásski will have the grindstone, and our

poor master will have his bruises--that's all.'

'What! And no one will stand up for the right?'

'Oh, my child, how recklessly you talk!' hurriedly whispered the old

hen. '_Supposing_ any one should overhear you, what then? Why, they

would think you a rebel!... What is the use of talking about "right"

and "standing up" when Pan Podliásski is a great lord, with fifty

horses in his stables, and hundreds of servants at his bidding, while

our master is a poor peasant, wearing himself out with work!'

'Well, then, _I_ will take our master's part! _I_ will get justice

done!' cried Scarlet-Comb.

'Hush, you silly child!' answered his mother more anxiously than ever,

and gently seizing his comb with her bill. 'What else do you imagine

you can do? You would like to set the whole world to rights, no doubt!'

'The thing is impossible!' cried Scarlet-Comb, and turning to the old

cock, he added: 'Am I not right, father?'

The old cock majestically raised his head, stood on tiptoe, flapped his

wings, and shouted at the top of his voice: 'Cock-a-doodle-doo-oo!...'

then stooped down, and betook himself, with a hurried business walk, to

the other end of the yard, where he stopped beside a squashed worm.

Every one could interpret his expression of opinion according to their

personal taste: the mother was convinced that he was setting their son

an example of thrift and good sense; the son, that the patriarch's

martial air and cry were intended to spur him on to prowess. Without

any further question Scarlet-Comb flew across the fence, and made

straight for the castle of Pan Podliásski.

Pan Podliásski was not alone. As he had to send to several very

distinguished neighbours invitations for the next day's banquet, and

as, like most of his peers in those days, he could not read or write,

and considered it humiliating to do anything for himself, he had sent

for his chaplain, and commissioned him to write the invitations. The

chaplain had finished writing the letters, and it only remained to

stamp upon them, instead of a signature, the crest of the house of

Podliásski. The magnate took off his signet-ring, which he wore hung

round his neck by a gold chain, and handed it to the chaplain to be

pressed upon the wax. At that moment there appeared in the open window,

from which the magnate and his chaplain were divided by a large table,

an ugly little cock.

'Pan, give back the grindstone!' he cried.

Reddening with anger, the magnate raised his eyes to the insolent fowl,

and seizing a heavy silver candlestick, flung it violently at him. All

happened so quickly, that before Scarlet-Comb had time to understand

anything, his wings had carried him from the window and his quick

little legs from the garden.

When he came to his senses, Scarlet-Comb was quite ashamed. 'Can it be

that I was frightened?... it is impossible!' he thought. But the fact

was plain; he had lost his head and run away from the landlord.

'Well, and what of that?' said the cock, consoling himself; 'the

important thing is not to stand like a log while things are thrown at

you that may smash your head, but to get justice done!'

And Scarlet-Comb once more made his way to the castle.

Pan Podliásski was standing on the front terrace among his retainers

and domestics, giving orders for to-morrow's banquet, when he suddenly

heard the already familiar words:

'Pan, give back the grindstone!'

Scarlet-Comb was standing perched upon the nearest post, to which

several horses were tied.

The magnate became positively frantic, clenched his fists, and shouted

to his servants to set all the hounds upon the insolent bird. The

cock, terrified, rushed with all his might out of the garden. On he

ran, helping himself along with his wings, and hearing how one dog was

gaining on him.... Now it was quite near ... snap! and tore the very

best feathers out of the cock's tail. In his desperation Scarlet-Comb

made one last effort, flew up as high as he could, and perched on a

tree by the wayside. The dog stood underneath, barking and whining,

but, fortunately, the hunting-horn blew, calling back the scattered

dogs, and his persecutor was obliged to go to kennel.

Meanwhile a discussion was going on in the yard between the servants

and noble retainers.

'What a plucky little cock!' said some; 'wasn't afraid to tell the Pan

himself the truth to his beard!'

'If I had him, I'd show him what truth is--with white sauce,' said the

under-cook, laughing.

'Just think,' remarked another; 'if a silly little chicken like that

can see that a Pan shouldn't take away a poor man's things, it must be

a bad business after all.'

'Yes, it's a mean trick,' muttered one of the nobles, frowning.

Early next morning Pan Podliásski's guests began to arrive. Dear

me, how gorgeous they all were! Satin, velvet, brocade, in the most

brilliant colours, simply dazzled your eyes on their _kountoushi_,

_zhoupány_ (doublets), and trunk hose. Their elegant caps were bordered

with valuable furs; both lords and ladies were adorned with ostrich

feathers, pearls, gold, silver, and precious stones. Magnificent horses

of all colours pranced under their graceful riders, who surrounded

the clumsy but richly-decorated coaches in which the fair ladies sat.

Often, on the way, the gallants would bend towards them and exchange

merry jests. The innumerable apartments of the castle were thrown open

for the crowd of guests.

For dinner all the visitors put on other still more gorgeous dresses. A

gallant was placed at the right hand of each lady. At the head of the

table sat the host, beaming with pleasure and satisfaction.

The long dinner was almost ended. The guests had feasted upon a wild

boar, which Pan Podliásski had killed in the chase, and which the cook

had roasted whole and cunningly arranged standing erect upon a silver

dish. The dessert was already finished; the noble retainers in their

gala dress had carried round to the guests old mead of the finest

quality, and German and Hungarian wines. The company was lively and

merry. A handsome young nobleman stood up at the foot of the table. He

had lately returned from France, where, at the king's court, he had

grown accustomed to refined manners and courtly ways. Raising a golden

goblet of wine in his right hand, and glancing round, he addressed the

company:

'It is not the gratitude of a guest which persuades me to lift this

goblet, nor even the courtesy of a Pole. No; I lift it in honour of

our well-beloved host, because by his virtues Pan Joseph Podliásski is

an ornament to the ranks of the Polish nobility. Courageous in war,

generous and hospitable in time of peace, he is incapable of any action

unworthy of his noble standing.'

Every one listened to the orator with evident pleasure. Pausing a

moment for breath he would have continued, when suddenly an ugly little

cock appeared at one of the open windows of the banqueting-hall, and

cried aloud:

'Pan, give back the peasant's grindstone!'

The guests, startled and confused, sat whispering to one another. The

young orator hesitated whether to continue his speech or not. The host

grew first white, then red, and turned to his servants.

'Why do you stand staring?' he cried. 'Do you suppose that is what

I maintain you for, that village fowls or cattle should disturb the

pleasure of my guests?'

Then, turning back, Pan Podliásski tried to put on an airy manner.

'Excuse us, dear guests,' he said; 'the country is the country after

all. We are not in Cracow, where fowls appear at noble banquets only on

silver dishes or in the soup. Still, one can be as merry in the country

as in Cracow, and I hope we shall prove it to be so.'

For all that, the magnate did not really feel at all so merry as he

tried to appear; the guests, too, were no longer quite at ease.

'What's that about a grindstone?' many of them asked their neighbours;

and those who had already heard from their servants about the

persistent fowl related the history of the grindstone in a few words.

A contemptuous expression appeared on many of the faces; and those

magnates who disliked Podliásski went so far as to remark that it was

unworthy of a great lord to soil his hands for a miserable grindstone.

All this did not escape the eyes of Pan Podliásski, and his blood

boiled. Seizing a favourable moment, he beckoned to his most

trustworthy servant, and, in a whisper, ordered him to find the cock,

alive or dead. For that matter the servants had already been hunting

the whole court and garden, but nothing came of it; the cock had long

ago made his escape; and, hiding in the foliage of the highest tree in

the neighbouring forest, waited till the danger was over.

The guests left earlier than they had intended. Pan Podliásski,

standing on the great terrace to take leave of them, tried to conceal

his annoyance under an affable manner. As soon, however, as the last

rider disappeared from sight, his face grew dark, and he turned to the

crowd of servants.

'Where is Doubinétzki?' he asked.

'Here I am, most illustrious Pan,' replied a warrior with gray

moustaches, stepping forward.

'Look here, my faithful Ignatius; you have served me long and well; do

me one more good service. Shoot that tiresome cock that gives me no

peace.'

The honest face of the old nobleman, seamed with the scars of war,

lighted up with an ironical smile, and his daring eyes flashed.

'Probably the Pan Voevoda has had too much to drink at dinner that he

gives me such commands,' said he. 'How am I, Ignatius Doubinétzki, who

have fought in fifty battles against Tartars, Turks, and Swedes; who

last year, without assistance, drove away a whole marauding band of

Tartars, and who in honourable combat have cut off the head of Akhmet

Khan himself,--how I am now to go to war against barn-door fowls? No; I

am a poor nobleman, and the Pan is a great magnate; but our honour is

the same. Indeed, since it has come to speaking truth, perhaps I have

more in the way of honour than the Pan; with all my poverty I would

have been ashamed to covet a peasant's grindstone. And if you want a

word of honest advice from old Doubinétzki, here it is: Leave that sort

of thing alone, Pan Voevoda; it's not an honourable business.'

For some minutes Pan Podliásski could not believe his ears. But at the

close of the old man's speech he turned white with rage, drew his sword

from its sheath, and made a dash forward at Doubinétzki.

'Seize him! bind him! cut the rebel down!' he shrieked in frenzy. But

it had all happened so suddenly that for a moment no one obeyed the

magnate, or could decide what to do; all the more so as every one loved

old Doubinétzki, and knew what a glorious fire-eater he was.

Old Ignatius, meanwhile, in his turn unsheathed his sword, sprang on to

his horse, which stood ready saddled beside the gate, and galloped away

unharmed. He was a free gentleman and a first-rate warrior, and any

magnate would be glad to take him into his service.

Utterly beside himself with fury, Pan Podliásski went into the

castle, and shut himself up in his bedchamber. He paced up and down

with long strides, brooding over all that had passed. The thought

that a good-for-nothing little fowl could embitter his life made him

frantic. He was ready to instantly call up all his retainers, and give

them strict commands to secure the cock, alive or dead. But then he

remembered the whispering of his guests at dinner, the furtive glances

of his servants, and the open rebellion of Doubinétzki. What was the

use of commanding? Would he not be exposing himself to new failures,

to new humiliations? And all this was the work of that cock!

Pan Podliásski felt as if he were stifled in the room, and went out

into the garden. The barrels of pitch which had illuminated it during

the banquet were almost burnt out; the pathways and arbours were

deserted. Pan Joseph walked along several avenues, and then lay down

upon a bench.

'Pan, give back the grindstone!' suddenly resounded over his head the

hated voice of Scarlet-Comb.

Pan Podliásski started up as if he had been stung, drew the pistol from

his belt, and fired upwards at random in the direction of the voice.

Directly afterwards he heard a piteous shriek from the cock, and a warm

drop of blood fell on to his hand.

'Ah! ah!' cried the magnate in angry delight; 'now you will leave off

embittering my life, you loathsome little brute!'

Satisfied and triumphant, he peered about in the dark to find the

cock; but seeing nothing, lay down again upon the bench, and soon fell

asleep. Before half an hour had passed, however, the magnate sprang

to his feet with a fearful cry, clasping his hands over his left eye.

He was conscious of an intolerable pain, and something wet and warm

and sticky was trickling down his face and hands. Dazed and blind, the

Voevoda rushed headlong to the castle. Suddenly behind him there rang

out the well-known cry:

'Pan, give back the grindstone! give back the peasant's grindstone!'

'Holy Virgin! The creature has pecked out my eye,' thought the

landowner in horror, and it was only then he vaguely understood that he

had not killed, but merely wounded, his persecutor.

Pan Podliásski did not confide to any one the manner in which he had

lost his eye. He said that he had struck against a branch in the dark.

He further declared that during his illness every noise disturbed him,

and on this pretext he commanded all the windows in the castle to be

tightly fastened, and placed sentinels at all the outer doors, with

orders not only to admit no one, but even to let no one and nothing

approach, neither dog, cat, nor bird. In reality the magnate was

terribly afraid that Scarlet-Comb would peck out his right eye too.

The autumn set in. The stone castle was damp, cold, empty, and dreary.

Its master, with a bandage over his left eye, sat in the huge dining

hall, with its richly-carved oak walls, and warmed himself at the

great open hearth where the embers lay smouldering and the fire still

flickered in the remains of two logs. Suddenly, from somewhere in the

distance, he heard a muffled but familiar cry:

'Pan, give back the grindstone!'

In an instant the Voevoda started up as though he had been scalded,

and shrieked frantically for his servants.

'Search the castle and everywhere round it instantly,' he ordered.

'There's a cock somewhere that sets my teeth on edge with his crowing.'

Fifty Cossack retainers of the magnate, led by three nobles and about

forty servants under the leadership of the steward, rushed to fulfil

the Pan's commands. But though they ransacked all the rooms, corridors,

and doorways,--though they carefully searched the garden and the

courtyard, they came back and reported to their illustrious master that

not the slightest sign of any bird at all was anywhere to be found.

This was not surprising; it did not occur to anybody to climb up on to

the roof; and there, beside the chimney, sat Scarlet-Comb.

'It must have been my fancy,' thought Pan Podliásski, and sat down

again before the fire. But just at the moment when he was half falling

asleep, there suddenly tumbled down the chimney into the fireplace

something small and black, which instantly hopped out on to the floor

with singed feathers, and cried:

'Pan, give back the grindstone!'

The Voevoda shrank away from the fowl in horror. Scarlet-Comb, taking

advantage of his stupefaction, ran through the rooms, and succeeded in

slipping past the sentinels and making his way right to the village.

The magnate stood breathless. 'One's not safe from him anywhere,' he

thought; and a sense of dread fell upon him. He clapped his trembling

hands, and ordered the servant who came in to fetch the steward

instantly.

'Give the peasant Kogoútek his grindstone back again at once,' said Pan

Podliásski, avoiding the steward's eyes; 'and give him ten ducats for

compensation.'

The steward would have replied, but the Voevoda looked at him with

such an expression that the words died on his lips.

That very day the grindstone was returned to Stanislas Kogoútek's yard.

Thereupon the little cock, Scarlet-Comb, although badly scorched, with

blisters on both claws, with his tail-feathers gone and his wing shot

through, jumped up on to the gate and, proudly raising his little head,

shouted to all the world:

'Cock-a-doodle-doo! the Pan has given back the peasant's grindstone!'

[Illustration]

THE TINY SCREW