quick flowing rivers, and whispering woods. It flew along roads, past
cornfields. Nowhere did it find anything profitable. In the meantime
some fine raindrops began to fall. The gnat was not dejected; it
hurried on. Suddenly it met a whole herd of cattle; the young calves
went on in front and the large oxen behind. The gnat's eyes glistened.
It wished to settle on the first calf and fix its proboscis into it,
but it bethought itself: "I see you are small, little calf; it is
better to eat a big ox." He began to examine the oxen. The herd went on
and the gnat still looked around. This one seemed too thin--that one,
though stout, yet not big enough; then came one that looked worse than
the preceding ones. Thus all passed by, and the gnat had not made a
choice.
'It suddenly flew after the herd, for the purpose of settling down
on the first it could reach. But now it met with a new misfortune.
The rain soaked its wings and made them heavy; it could not fly any
farther, and got angry and began to scold the rain: "So you intend to
wet my wings? you cannot find another place to drop on? Beware! do you
think to take me in with your tricks?" The gnat had hardly spoken thus,
when a large drop of rain fell on its back and maimed it; it was choked
by its last word, and fell head over heels on to the grass.
'Nobody knows how long the gnat remained there. Anyhow, when the bright
sun peeped out from the clouds and shone upon the earth, the gnat
contrived to creep out of the grassy thicket and to dry itself. Then it
flew on farther, and again, flying, it blew its trumpets--
'"Fi-fo-fum!
Here I come!
I will slay
Man and beast!
I will feast
All the day!"
Suddenly it perceived before it, at some distance, a mare harnessed to
a cart, moving on slowly. A peasant was sitting in the cart.
'The gnat rejoiced: "Now I can eat my fill; when I shall have dined
off the man I'll taste the horse." So it flew straight on to the man's
forehead, and stung with all its force.
'The peasant passed the palm of his hand over his forehead, crushed the
gnat, and threw it behind the cart, and all was over with it.'
The Lilac Old Man had finished his tale.
'Basil, are you not asleep?' asked the first Old Man.
'Not yet, Mr. Old Man,' answered Basil.
'Do you wish to sleep?'
'I do.'
'Aaa!' yawned the Red Old Man.
'Aaa!' yawned after him the Lilac Old Man.
'Aaa!' yawned after them Basil.
'Aaa!' yawned yet another near them. When Basil looked round he saw
that a third old man sat on his pillow, looking exactly like the two
others; the only difference was that his coat and trousers were of
white poppy petals. The White Old Man smiled caressingly, laid his hand
on Basil's head, and Basil could not refrain from closing his eyes and
smiling back at him. Meanwhile the new old man gently rocked himself.
Basil heard him sing a little song in a very soft and lulling voice:
'Gentle dreams with pinions light
By the window did alight,
Whisp'ring through their tresses bright:
'Has sweet sleep been here to-night?"
Wearied out a sick man lies
Tossing on a fever bed,
Gazing with wide, hopeless eyes
Through the darkness thick and dread.
Fairy dreams come trooping, shining,
Hand in hand with quiet sleep,
And their tresses, intertwining,
Softly o'er his pillow sweep,
Till his eyelids sink and close
While their song around him flows:
"Sleep, oh sleep!
Night and rest
From thee keep
Sprites unblest!
When to-morrow
Sunbeams peep,
Be thy sorrow
Laid asleep!"
* * * * *
'Gentle dreams with pinions light
By the window did alight,
Whisp'ring through their tresses bright:
"Has sweet sleep been here to-night?"
'See! A haggard seamstress, bending,
Bloodless cheek and aching head,
O'er the toil that, never ending,
Hardly gives her children bread.
Cometh sleep, and from her fingers
Steals away the half-turned seam,
And with noiseless footstep lingers,
Weaving many a joyous dream,
Till her eyelids sink and close,
While their song around her flows:
"Work is over!
And we hover
Round thee lightly,
Bringing nightly
Short relief,
Till thy grief
Again is born
With each new morn!"
* * * * *
'Gentle dreams with pinions light
By the window did alight,
Whisp'ring through their tresses bright:
"Has sweet sleep been here to-night?"
'No! I hear a baby crying,
Though the curly little head
Long ago should have been lying
Cradled in a cosy bed.
Fairy dreams come round him flocking,
And on many a snowy arm
Lift and bear him, softly rocking,
Covering with kisses warm,
Till his eyelids sink and close,
While their song around him flows:
"Hush, my sweetest!
Shut thine eyes
Till thou greetest
Fair sunrise,
Till dawn's hour
Laughs again;
Like a flower
After rain!"'
The White Old Man had long finished singing, but Basil was still
listening, longing for more; it pleased him so much.
'Basil, are you asleep?' suddenly asked the Red Old Man, in a low voice.
'Not yet, Mr. Old Man,' answered Basil.
'Do you wish to sleep?'
'I do.'
Here the Red Old Man yawned again very loudly; then the Lilac one
yawned; and the White one did the same. Basil also yawned. But then
it seemed as if he heard another yawn still louder than the others
very near to him, somewhere above. Basil looked round and saw on the
side rail of his bedstead, above his head, a fourth old man, who was
dangling his legs. He much resembled the Lilac and White Men, but he
was dressed in many colours.
The old man smiled, and strewed, as if in fun, many, many poppy petals
on Basil.
Basil felt so very sleepy that he hardly could keep his eyes open; yet
he wished very much to look at the new old man.
'Shut your eyes, and I will show you my pictures,' whispered the
Many-Coloured Old Man, and poured a whole handful of poppies on Basil.
The boy closed his eyelids gladly, and at once saw a beautiful street
in which mamma never allowed Basil to walk alone.
Now Basil went along with both his hands in his pockets. One pocket was
full of apples, the other full of pears. Basil took them out by turns,
first one and then the other, and ate to his great content. When he
got tired of the fruit he felt nuts in his pockets instead of apples,
and dates and dried figs instead of pears. After a while he could not
help thinking of sweets. And as soon as he did so the nuts turned into
chocolate, and the dates and figs into sugar-candy.
Besides this, at every curbstone stood a prettily-dressed girl, very
like those who served Basil at the confectioner's when _Petr Petróvich_
took him there and offered him some choice morsel.
One regaled him with grapes, another with ice cream, a third with
pineapple, a fourth with strawberries, and a fifth with apricots; and
so on.
Basil walked on gaily, looking around on all sides, and taking a good
piece from each plate. What was the most wonderful was that he never
suffered after it.
Basil walked on and on in the happiest frame of mind. Nevertheless
he could not help noticing that the street was somewhat long. He had
hardly thought this when he perceived that the street had vanished,
and he stood in the middle of a toy-shop. Goodness me! what beautiful
things he saw there! Drums, swords, guns, mechanical dogs, balls,
furniture, rocking-horses, loto, pictures--a regular furnished
house.... But no! let us stop enumerating. It would be impossible
to remember all the splendid things displayed in the shop. Basil's
eyes were simply dazzled at the cupboards and shelves. After a good
while, when he had surveyed all these treasures, his attention became
attracted by a crossbow with a steel spring, a capital bowstring,
and the butt end well polished. Next to the crossbow was a quiver
attached to a strap with all sorts of arrows. For a long time Basil had
longed for such a bow. With this bow you might hit any mark, and you
might even, if on the watch, shoot the raven that was in the habit of
stealing small chickens from the yard. Basil had seen just such a bow
at a little friend's house. How easy it was to shoot with it! Basil had
asked his mamma to buy him such a bow, but his mamma said she could
not afford it; it cost five roubles.[6] And now Basil saw his pet bow
in the shop. Suddenly the door creaked, and Basil's mamma entered.
She paid down the money, took the bow and the quiver, and walked out.
Basil was so overjoyed that he nearly jumped out of his bed; but at the
same moment the shop vanished from his sight, and in its place stood
a shoemaker's workshop, where his mamma used to order her boots. How
happy he was walking with her and holding his bow in his hands. He
looked around on all sides, and thought all other people were happy to
see him with his beautiful bow. Suddenly he perceived how greatly he
was mistaken, for he saw the master of the workshop, a rather short,
square-built man, standing before his apprentice, scolding him, and
preparing by his gestures to thrash him. The unhappy boy cried hard,
trembled with fear, and begged for mercy, but the master was angry, and
did not listen to him. Seeing some visitors, the master in a moment put
on an amiable expression, turned to them, and threw away the strap. The
trembling apprentice drew back towards the door. Basil pitied the boy
dreadfully. He went up to the poor fellow and asked in a whisper, 'What
does he want to beat you for?' The boy did not answer, and drew back
towards the door with downcast eyes. Basil went after him and asked
again: 'Did you do anything?'
[6] About twelve shillings.
'I've done nothing, and I'm not guilty,' answered the apprentice, after
a long silence.
'What does he want to beat you for then?'
'Peter informed about me.'
'Which Peter?'
'The son of my master.'
'Tell me all.'
'My master bought Peter a bow--a beautiful bow like yours--and told
him to take care of it; and he broke it, and he pretended I had broken
it; and I swear I didn't.' (Here the boy made the sign of the cross in
token of his innocence.) 'The master is going to beat me,' he added in
a whisper, and the tears flowed from his eyes.
'Now, don't cry,' said Basil, taking the apprentice by the hand. He
pitied the boy dreadfully, but he did not know how to console him.
'It's all very well for you to say, Don't cry. If you felt his strap
you wouldn't talk like that; my master has a heart of stone.'
Basil looked at his own bow; the bow was beautiful, and Basil had not
even had time to shoot with it. He sighed and turned away; it would be
too hard for him to part with his bow. But when the unhappy boy began
to cry again Basil could not bear it. He took him by the hand, and
said: 'Here you are; if you wish I'll give you my bow; you can give it
to your master, so that he won't beat you.'
'How?' asked the apprentice, hardly believing that Basil would give up
his toy, and after looking at him attentively, added: 'Won't you be
sorry to give it up? It is such a beautiful bow. I know what to do: let
him beat me--I'm not afraid. Better keep it and allow me to shoot with
it. Peter never allowed me to shoot, but you will. I'm not afraid.'
Basil pitied the boy still more, and called out: 'No, no, I don't
want it; take it;' and Basil put the bow in the apprentice's hands.
Immediately after the boy and the bow and the workshop vanished. The
Many-Coloured Old Man left off showing pictures, and at the same time
the Red Man asked in a well-known voice: 'Basil, are you asleep?'
'No, Mr. Old Man,' answered Basil, with great difficulty.
'With what Old Man are you talking?' asked the same voice, laughing.
Basil opened his eyes; it was already morning. The sun shone brightly
through the red cotton curtains at the window, and his mamma stood at
his bedside.
'Mamma?' asked Basil, with wonder. 'Then it was all dream?'
'What?'
'The Little Old Man?'
'Why, certainly it was;' and the mother tenderly kissed her boy.
[Illustration]
BROWNY
(A POPULAR OUKRAÏNÏEN TALE)
A certain peasant had a dog called Browny. So long as the dog was young
and strong his master fed him; but when he grew old, and the master saw
that he was no longer fit for a watchdog, he began to grudge him his
food, and turned him out of doors. Browny went out into the fields and
wandered on, not caring where--on and on he went, weeping bitterly.
A wolf came up to him and asked: 'Why do you cry so?'
'I have something to cry for,' answered the dog. 'So long as I was
strong, and could feed myself, I served my master truly and faithfully,
and now, when I have grown old in his service, he says: "Be off with
you!" Where am I to go now? I have not even the strength to catch a
hare.'
'Ah, that's too bad!' said the Wolf. 'Now, look here: we wolves are
supposed to be downright robbers, because we have to procure our food
in some way or other. Yet I wouldn't do such a meanness as your master
did. Well, if he does not remember your faithful service, there is
another way of making him give you the food that you have honestly
deserved from him.'
'Oh! if you could manage that, some day I would repay you for it!'
exclaimed poor Browny, licking his lips at the very thought of a good
dinner.
'We'll manage it,' said the Wolf. 'When your master comes out into the
field with his family to reap the corn, his wife will lay down the
baby under a rick; you keep close by, so that I may know which is their
field. I will seize the child and run off; you rush after me and make
believe to snatch the child away from me, and I will let it go as if I
were afraid of you. Then everything will go as you wish.'
No sooner said than done. At harvest-time the man came out into the
field with his family to reap. His wife laid down the baby under a
rick, took a sickle, and went with her husband to reap. Suddenly the
Wolf rushed up, snatched the baby, and ran off. Browny sprang out of
the corn and after him. The baby's father and mother were dreadfully
frightened: the father tore along, shouting, 'Catch him, Browny--bite
him! bite him!...' And Browny did his best: he caught up the Wolf, took
the child from him, and brought it to his master.
'Good dog, Browny!' said the master. 'Oh you good dog! I thought he
wasn't fit for anything now, and see what a plucky fellow he is!' and
he took half a loaf and a piece of lard out of his bag and gave them to
Browny.
In the evening the peasants went home, and Browny with them. When they
got in, the man said to his wife: 'Light the fire and make us some
buck-wheat dough-dumplings, with plenty of lard.'
Browny's mistress made the dumplings--capital dumplings--so nice that
they would make your mouth water to look at them! The master gave
Browny a seat at the table as if the dog were his best friend, and
sat down beside him. Browny, on his part, made an agreeable face, and
expressed by his whole appearance that he would know how to behave
himself, even if he were the _starosta_ (elder) of the village.
'Now, wife,' said the man, 'turn the dumplings out into the bowl, and
let us have supper!'
The wife filled the bowl, and the husband put a helping for Browny into
a smaller bowl, and blew it a long time, so that Browny should not burn
his muzzle. He had become such an important person all of a sudden!
Browny lived in peace and plenty, but he did not forget his benefactor,
the Wolf. He used to think: 'Perhaps the Wolf is wandering about the
steppes now, starving!' Then he would grow quite melancholy, and shake
his head, sighing.
Meanwhile, Carnival came round, and the peasant began making wedding
preparations--his daughter was to be married. Then Browny shook off
all his melancholy. He went far away from the village, and called the
Wolf. When the Wolf came up, they hardly recognised one another: Browny
had grown fat and glossy, while as for the unhappy Wolf, he was thin,
worn-out--nothing but skin and bones; his fur hung in ragged tufts, and
his teeth chattered from hunger. When Browny looked at his friend his
heart ached for pity.
'Come on Sunday evening, brother, to my master's garden-plot,' said the
Dog to the Wolf; 'I'll give you such a feast as you have not had in all
your life!'
Now a good dinner was a rare thing to the poor Wolf; his eyes shone
with delight, and he felt quite sick with hunger.
On Sunday evening the Wolf came to the place agreed upon. That very
evening was the wedding feast in the house of Browny's master. Browny
came out to his friend, and, seizing a moment when there was no one in
the cottage, led him in and hid him under the table. The feast began.
When the food was put on the table, Browny instantly snatched a big
hunch of bread and the best slice of roast meat and carried it under
the table. The guests shouted at him; some wanted to strike him; but
the master of the house stopped them, saying: 'Don't touch him; that
dog is allowed to do anything he likes; he saved my child, and I will
keep him till he dies!' That was just what Browny wanted: he pulled
all the best things off the table, and gave them to his friend--pies,
everything, even a bottle of _horílka_.[7] The _horílka_ made the Wolf
tipsy, and he said to Browny:
[7] Oukraïnïen whisky.
'I want to sing a song!'
'Heaven forbid!' answered Browny; 'there'll be the devil to pay here!
I'll bring you a bottle of _nalívka_,[8] only hold your tongue!'
[8] _Nalívka_--sweet pleasant Oukraïnïen liquor made of whisky
and fruit.
But after drinking the _nalívka_, the Wolf grew merrier than ever.
'You can do as you like,' said he; 'but now I am going to sing.' He
lifted up his muzzle, and such a howl as he set up under the table!
Every one was terrified. Some ran right out of the cottage, some caught
up sticks and spades and wanted to kill the Wolf there and then.
Browny, seeing that it was a bad job, flew at his friend as if to
strangle him. Then the host called out to his guests: 'Don't hit the
Wolf, or you will kill my Browny. Let them alone; Browny will settle
the Wolf by himself.'
The dog, meanwhile, struggling and pretending to bite, managed to get
his friend first out of the cottage, then out of the garden and right
across the fields. Then he stopped.
'There, brother,' said he to the Wolf; 'you did me a good turn, and
I've done you one. Good-bye!'
'Thank you!' said the Wolf. 'Good luck to you!'
And so they parted.
[Illustration]
THE OLD SWORD'S MISTAKE
Once upon a time there was a steel sword, whose blade was forged and
tempered in a most excellent manner. The handle was of precious wood,
with beautiful inlaid work of mother-of-pearl and gold. From his very
birth the Sword was in the service of a gallant knight; and a sturdy,
faithful sword he was. He fought for the sake of truth and of every
fair lady, and against all oppressors of the weak. All who, even by
word or glance, injured a lady dreaded the steel weapon: there was no
man, no arms in the world, whom the steel warrior feared. But the
valiant knight was killed in a hard fight, and the Sword remained lying
on the battle-field. There the wind blew sand upon him, and leaves,
fallen during the autumn from the neighbouring bushes, covered him.
And many long years he lay there buried and unseen, until a peasant
proposed to clear the ground, and his plough ran by chance against the
Sword. The first thing that the ploughman did was to utter an oath, for
his coulter, in striking against the stout weapon, received a notch.
Then the Sword was dug out, taken to town, and sold to an old curiosity
shop. The shopman hung the Sword on a nail.
From his lofty resting-place the old warrior, in glancing about the
shop, saw in the corner of the hall a white lady of astonishing beauty.
She was clad only in a loose-fitting garment about her fair form.
Her neck, arms, and feet were bare; her hair was all combed back,
then caught up by a diadem, from which it hung down in a shower of
curls. She stood erect, and did not move. On her fair lips played an
enigmatic smile, while her beautiful arms hung loose beside her, and
her whole form seemed to breathe with free, powerful peace. One thing
alone appeared to the steel warrior somewhat strange: the fair one was
all white; her cheeks, eyes, hair; her hands and feet; her garments
and diadem,--all were like fresh snow. But this seemed only to give a
new charm to her beauty. The longer the old Sword gazed at the white
unknown woman, the brighter grew his blade, the more merrily danced all
the rainbow tints in his mother-of-pearl inlaid work, and the stronger
grew his wish to fight as of old for truth's and a lady's sake--nay,
for this very lady.
The steel warrior longed to speak to the white beauty, but he did not
venture. 'I am so old,' he thought; 'so notched; even somewhat rusty
... while she is so fair!... No, no, it would not do. Methinks she
would not even mind me or look at me.'...
Now the old Sword glanced at the lady in the corner, and she gazed at
him, smiling enigmatically....
'Oh,' thought the sturdy warrior, 'if only I could do something for
her!' But there seemed no chance of being of use to the fair creature.
The Sword could no longer bear such suspense. He summoned up all his
courage, and uttered in a faltering clang: 'Queen of my soul! tell
me what you desire. Only tell me, and I will do it; at least I will
attempt anything for you!' But the White Beauty remained speechless,
and only smiled enigmatically as before.
'Why does she keep silence?' This was the question that tormented the
old Sword, and he looked at the fair lady with anguish. Oh how much
she might say if she would but speak! What power breathes through her
apparent calm! And her smile! what a rich soul it hides! Nay, if this
heavenly creature does not speak it is certainly only in consequence of
some spell laid upon her! And the old fighter looked around, pondering
over the question, Who could be the malicious sorcerer? It could not be
the gigantic snake, stuffed with tow, that stood in an opposite corner,
for its eyes were but glass, and though they say snakes fascinate birds
and little animals, they need living eyes for the purpose. Nor could it
be yonder ivory-headed cane near the shelf; it had the shape of an old
man's head in a nightcap, with saucy, black goggle eyes. The insolent
creature smiled, it is true, very mockingly, and was capable, as it
seemed, of any rude trick; but he was so placed as not to be able even
to see the White Lady. Somewhat higher than the Sword, hung on the same
wall a red-nosed man, with a mass of tangled hair upon his head. He
had a wine-glass in his hand, and he looked straight at the beauty with
winking, roguish eyes. But that fellow could not have bewitched the
lady either; he was too commonplace and good-natured for such a thing.
The old Sword had seen scores of such fellows in old times, when his
knight was banqueting in some wayside inn, or carousing in some friar's
cellar, after the conquest of a town. Revellers of those days were clad
differently, but they were evidently birds of the same feather. The
Sword even felt some special interest in the old toper--he seemed to be
a clever fellow.
'Look here, old boy,' said the old warrior in a whisper to his
neighbour, 'who do you think has bewitched the lady in the corner?'
'And why do you imagine the girl to be bewitched?' retorted the
red-nosed one, in a hoarse, loud bass voice, making no scruples about
the matter, though his companion evidently wished to speak in an
undertone.
'H'm, h'm ... well, well!' said the old Sword; 'hold your peace!
indeed you speak too loud.... One must be more discreet in delicate
matters.... As to the spell, it is evident: have you not noticed the
lady to be absolutely silent?'
'Well, what can she say if she has nothing to say? Ha! ha! ha!'
'What!' roared the Sword, and was about to teach the reveller
politeness in his own way, but the latter checked his ardour with these
words--
'Listen to what I am going to tell you, old fellow: if you do not
intend to hear me quietly, why then do you ask my opinion?'
This remark seemed to the Sword to be reasonable, therefore he
restrained himself and resumed his speech, though not without anger.
'You have drowned your reason in wine, that's all. How can it be that
such a woman as this has nothing to say? Just look at her smile!'
'But perhaps she does not know anything but how to smile enigmatically.'
But such things the old warrior could no longer endure. Indeed, he
would have made a cut at the toper's red nose had he not been taken
down at that moment by the owner of the shop to show to some customer.
'Very good indeed,' said the latter; 'but it is not to my taste. I like
this far better.' And the customer pointed to the White Beauty.
'Ha! ha! ha!... I should think you do,' laughed the shopman merrily.
'It is my luck she cannot speak, else she would have been married long
ago, and I should have lost instead of gained by her.'
'Ah!' thought the old Sword, 'here is the sorcerer; I might have
guessed it long ago. The owner of the shop is the mightiest here; he
may do with us what he will. And that hideous man intends to sell that
heavenly woman! But he shall smart for it.'
The old Sword broke loose from the nail, and, flashing dreadfully with
his blade, struck the shopkeeper's shoulder. No doubt the man would
have been wounded had the blade been sharp.
'Dear me,' cried the shopman, rubbing the injured spot, 'such a heavy
old fool! How did those knights in old times fight with such cudgels?'