Transcriber's Notes:
Blank pages have been eliminated.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the original.
A few typographical errors have been corrected.
The cover page was created by the transcriber and can be considered public domain.

THE CHILDREN'S LIBRARY

A CHINA CUP AND OTHER STORIES FOR CHILDREN

THE CHILDREN'S LIBRARY.

THE BROWN OWL.
A CHINA CUP, and other Stories.
STORIES FROM FAIRYLAND.
THE STORY OF A PUPPET.
THE LITTLE PRINCESS.
TALES FROM THE MABINOGION.

"Seizing a heavy silver candlestick, the Magnate flung it violently at the fowl."
Page 46.

A CHINA CUP
AND
OTHER STORIES FOR CHILDREN

BY

FELIX VOLKHOVSKY

ILLUSTRATED BY MALISCHEFF

LONDON
T. FISHER UNWIN
1892

SECOND EDITION

CONTENTS

A CHINA CUP

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.

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?'

'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.

HOW SCARLET-COMB THE COCK DEFENDED THE RIGHT

LL 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.

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.

'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!'

THE TINY SCREW

N the watchmaker's bench, which was covered with white paper, so that all the little things needed for his trade should be easy to see, were spread out various small pincers, gimlets, screwdrivers, tiny hammers, watchkeys, files, and other delicate instruments. Under a glass case lay watches and clocks taken to pieces. There were some open boxes filled with cog-wheels, and some watch-glasses, in which lay some wee screws. Among these was a very pretty one, of blue, finely-tempered steel, but so tiny that he could not be seen properly without a magnifying-glass. He looked round the workroom quite frightened at all his new surroundings. Until now he had lain in a dark, closed box and hardly had ever seen the light; now the watchmaker, Karl Ivánovich, had taken him out of the box and laid him in a watch-glass, evidently intending to use him. And now the little blue mite peered round, wondering and frightened.

Indeed, what wonder! Round the walls, in shallow cupboards with glass doors, in flat cases with sloping glass lids, on the large table, on the benches—everywhere, hung or lay or stood watches and clocks of all kinds and sizes, and most of them were moving and ticking like live things. The cheap clocks with tin or china faces, decorated with rather clumsily-painted roses, wagged their pendulums hastily backwards and forwards, as though hurrying to work or to business. The huge clocks in wooden and glass cases, on the contrary, swung their pendulums with a hardly perceptible motion, as though they feared to compromise their dignity by any haste. All sorts of wonderful things were on the table. There was a clock in the shape of a great fallen tree-trunk, across which a log was thrown, with boys sitting on the ends of it, swinging in time to the ticking of the clock. Another represented a gray hare squatting on his haunches, holding the dial between his forefeet and moving his ears in time as the clock ticked. But our tiny Screw was most impressed by a large clock, standing at one corner of the shop in a huge glass case. The clock itself represented an Indian temple with a dome, all carved in black wood. Inside the temple was the dial, also black, with gold letters; the hands were gold snakes. Under the dial, a little in front, sat a gray-haired magician in a long robe and high cap, holding in his right hand a silver hammer. The old man, with his grave expression of face, was so well carved that he looked quite alive. But the most wonderful thing of all was that he never stopped slowly turning his eyes from side to side, keeping time with the solemn, hardly audible ticking of the clock; he seemed as if watching to see that all was in order in his kingdom of time. At his right hand stood a shining silver bell on a tall and slender pedestal; and at his left a black cat was sitting on a cushion; it had real fur, and its green eyes glittered as if alive.

Our little Screw gazed intently at the magician in his Indian temple, at his cat and bell—he gazed upon them with involuntary reverence and awe—and finally decided that the enigmatic old man must be the ruler of time, and that all the clocks in the place must be in his service. He was still meditating upon this, when suddenly the black clock began to hiss, the magician raised his left hand with the forefinger extended, as if commanding attention, and began slowly striking the silver bell with his hammer. He struck it ten times, and every time the cat opened its mouth and mewed at each stroke of the hammer.

The moment the magician had finished, an indescribable confusion arose in the shop: in three clocks, which represented houses, windows opened; from each window a cuckoo jumped out and called 'cuckoo' ten times. The other clocks, with the tin, china, and copper dials, all began striking in emulation of each other. Some struck rapidly and with a thin sound, others slowly and heavily; the first jarred on the ear with their harsh notes, while the others had a mellow ring; but all struck at once, as though trying to catch one another up. The brass alarum, which stood on the table, rattled long and mercilessly, as if it were determined to silence all the others with its deafening noise; then, when the other clocks had finished striking, it too struck ten. After that all the clocks continued busily ticking, just as if nothing had happened.

All this ringing, banging, and noise made our Screw quite dizzy; the poor little fellow lay in his watch-glass trembling all over. But when he recovered from his agitation, he was overwhelmed with silent ecstasy. He understood for what purpose clocks exist. He knew that they show to man the divisions of time, thus helping him in both his intellectual work and his ordinary life. Two men, however far apart from one another, can, if only they have good watches, come at the same moment to a particular spot, or do whatever they may have agreed upon—even the height of mountains is determined by means of watches. The little Screw understood all this, and his wee frame thrilled all over with enthusiasm. 'How useful they all are!' he thought. This set him involuntarily thinking of himself, and he grew sad—sad even to tears. How tiny he was! how insignificant and pitiable compared with all these clocks! If you were to hang up even the worst of them in a house where there was before no clock at all, there would at once be in that house more order, more reason and utility. But he! wherever you were to put him, it would make no difference.

Our Screw was very unhappy; he tried so long to be of use to some one, and he felt that he was fit for nothing! Once more he looked attentively round the bench. There were a great number of little axles, wires, pendulums, pinions, and springs. He did not understand for what they could be used, but he saw one thing—that every one of these little objects was larger than himself. 'Oh dear!' he thought, 'even if all these little things are useless in themselves, still, something useful can be made out of them. But what can be made of such a non-entity as I am—I, who cannot even be seen with the naked eye? Nothing, absolutely nothing!...' And all the tiny person of the Screw quivered with grief.

At that moment there ran into the workshop a little boy and girl, the children of Karl Ivánovich. Their father had gone to fetch his pipe; his assistant, Yegór,[5] had also left the shop, and the children had a chance to enjoy a peep at the wonders of the workshop, into which Karl Ivánovich generally would not let them come. The boy ran up to his father's bench and began quickly examining the things lying upon it.

'Look, look at the little Screw!' he said to his sister in a loud whisper, turning to take the blue steel Screw from the watch-glass.

'Don't touch! Don't touch; you'll drop it!' whispered the little girl, half frightened, but also looking inquisitively at our Screw.

'What next! Drop it!' repeated the boy, mimicking her. 'We're not all such butter-fingers as you!' and in a fit of obstinacy he picked up the Screw. But the Screw was so small that the boy could scarcely hold him with the tips of his fingers.

'Indeed, you'll drop it!... Papa will be cross!...' continued the little girl in the utmost anxiety.

Suddenly they heard the creaking of Karl Ivánovich's boots in the next room, and he blew his nose as loud as if it were a trumpet. The boy started, and dropped the Screw from his fingers on to the floor.

'Aha! aha! There, you see! I told you so!' whispered the girl again.

'Hush!' answered her brother, also in a whisper, stooping down to look for the Screw. But it was too late; Karl Ivánovich came into the workshop, and in his presence the boy was afraid to show what he had done.

Our Screw, meanwhile, lay on the floor, and did not grieve over what had happened.

'It is all the same,' he thought,—'to be crushed under somebody's foot, or to go through a whole life such a feeble and useless creature as I am!'

Just at that moment Karl Ivánovich came into the workshop, puffing at his pipe. He was a thorough German, with a flat, red face, and an embroidered cap with a tassel. Although he had lived in Russia for about thirty years, and owed his good fortune to Russian people, yet he had not learnt Russian properly, and thought even that it was a merit not to know it. He was of the opinion that the Russians were mere cattle; and when he contrived to gain 50 per cent in selling some watch to a Russian, this was in his eyes one proof more how right he was to think contemptuously of the nation. He therefore always spoke German in his domestic life.

'Kinder, fort! fort!' said Karl Ivánovich sternly. But observing at once from the frightened faces of the children that something must be amiss, he frowned still more severely, and going up to the bench, began inspecting it closely.

'What mischief have you been up to here, eh?' asked the watchmaker.

The children hung their heads in silence.

Karl Ivánovich once more carefully examined his bench, and suddenly his attention was caught by the watch-glass in which he had laid the wee blue steel Screw.

'Where's the Screw? Who has taken the Screw?' shouted Karl Ivánovich at the top of his voice.

The little girl got frightened for her brother and began to cry bitterly; the boy remained silent.

'Well, are you going to speak or not?' cried the watchmaker, still louder.

'It's on the floor,' whispered the girl.

'That was you dropped it, I'll be bound!' said the watchmaker, shaking his finger before his little son's face. The boy still held his tongue, and only hung his head lower and lower.

'Oh, welch ein wilder Bube!' cried Karl Ivánovich in a fury. 'Do you understand what you've done? It was the only screw of that kind that I had left, and the new order has got delayed on the journey here. How am I to mend the chronometer from the telegraph station now, eh?'

'Papa, it was so tiny,' said the little girl through her tears; she wanted to say something in her brother's defence and did not know what plea to put forward.

'Oh, du dummes Ding!' cried the angry watchmaker. 'Do you suppose because the Screw is small it's of no consequence? Why, can't you see the value of it is just that it's so small; nothing else will go into the hole. Without it I can't screw the pieces together in the chronometer, and how long do you think it will go without being screwed? Can't you understand that, you little goose?'

Ah! with what joy our little Screw listened to this speech as he lay on the floor beside the bench. He was not ill-natured, and felt very sorry for the children when Karl Ivánovich scolded them so; but how could the little creature help rejoicing when his dearest wish was thus suddenly fulfilled? He had been grieving because he was so small, had been ashamed of his weakness, and had believed himself utterly useless. He had so longed to be useful—even as useful as any lump of metal that has not been made into anything; but he had thought himself incapable even of that.... And now it appeared that he, small as he was, could be as useful as a first-rate chronometer! Yes, for without him, the tiny Screw, the chronometer itself would not keep time properly.

The Screw was wild with joy; he positively choked with delight!

Soon, however, his rapture was changed into terrible anxiety. Karl Ivánovich made the children look for the lost Screw, called his assistant to look too, and finally, straddling his short legs apart, and leaning his red hands on his knees, stooped down himself with a magnifying-glass at his eye, and began carefully inspecting the floor. But all their searching was in vain: the whole four of them looked, crawled over the floor, felt about with their hands quite close to the Screw, and could not find him.

'Oh dear!' thought the poor little fellow, 'what if they don't find me after all? That would be terrible!'

It would indeed be terrible; after passing through such bitter moments, to be at the very point of reaching the utmost possible happiness, and then after all to miss it and be crushed under a dirty boot! He would have cried out, 'Here I am! here!' but did not know how to do that in human speech.

In his extremity the little Screw looked up at the mighty magician who ruled over all the clocks. As before, the magician was gravely turning his eyes from side to side, watching over his kingdom.

'Oh great, good magician! king of time! benefactor of men! surely thou wilt not let me perish here for no cause, when I too might be of use? Help me, oh help me, to be found!' entreated our wee friend.

The magician glanced benevolently down on the poor little Screw, and instantly raising his left hand to command attention, began striking on his bell with the hammer he held in his right; the cat at once began to mew.

A ray of sunshine fell through the window straight upon the magician. When he raised and dropped his hammer, the ray flashed on its smooth surface and was reflected from it right on to the Screw. The Screw glittered like a spark of fire, and Karl Ivánovich's little girl cried out joyfully, 'I've found it!'

Karl Ivánovich instantly picked up his recovered treasure with a pair of small pincers and laid him again in the watch-glass. Then he sat down at his bench and set to work at the telegraph chronometer. Presently came the turn of our Screw; the watchmaker picked him up again with the pincers, placed him in a hole in one part of the chronometer, and screwed him tight with a delicate little screwdriver.

On finishing his work Karl Ivánovich wound up the watch, held it to his ear and listened. It was ticking away merrily, and our Screw sat firmly in his place and held the pieces together as a conscientious screw should. Then the watchmaker hung up the chronometer in a glass case to be tested.

One morning, about a fortnight afterwards, the outer door of Karl Ivánovich's shop opened, and the director of the telegraph station came in.

'Good morning, Karl Ivánovich,' he said; 'what about my watch?'

'It's ready—quite ready.'

'And goes well?'

'Goes perfectly. There was just one screw wanting, and I've put it in. That was the whole matter.'

The telegraph director opened the inner lid of the watch and looked at our Screw; then he shut the lid again and put the chronometer into his waistcoat pocket. It ticked bravely, and the little blue steel Screw sat in his hole, saying to himself joyfully: 'And I, too, am of use!'

THE DREAM

HERE once lived a little boy called Basil. He had a good mamma, who worked hard to educate her child. They lived alone: they had no relatives, no servants. His mamma tried never to leave Basil alone in the evening; when she had some work to carry to her employer she always tried to do it in the daytime.

A friend once presented Basil's mamma with a ticket for the theatre. This took place in her absence. When she returned home Basil met her with great joy. 'Mamma dearest, Petr Petróvich (Mr. Peter) has been here and left a ticket for you. You shall go to hear the opera to-night. You like the opera, don't you?'

'But, my dear boy, what shall I do with the ticket? I cannot go.'

'And why, mamma?'

'Why, I can't leave you all alone at home; if we had two tickets we could both go; but without you I can't go.'

'No, no, you must go, mamma,' insisted Basil.

'No, my darling, I can't leave you,' said his mother, sighing; 'you would be afraid, and something might happen to you.'

'You might ask Mrs. Lookina to stay with me.'

Mrs. Lookina was their neighbour, living on the same landing in the same large house.

'It is hard to be under an obligation to any one, my dear; the last time when I had to take home some hurried work I asked Mrs. Lookina to stay some time with you. I cannot do so too often; she has work of her own.'

'Then I shall stay alone, and will not be afraid,' answered Basil; 'and if anything happens, I shall call Mrs. Lookina; and if nothing happens, I shall not call her.'

Basil's mother saw very well that the boy wished her to go to the theatre. She was much pleased; she kissed him tenderly, but did not say what she intended to do. But by the glance she cast at the ticket, the way she put it aside, the sigh which followed, Basil understood all very well; his mamma would very much like to go to the opera, and it was hard for her to deprive herself of so rare a pleasure, which she could now have for nothing; but yet she could not decide to go. Basil was so disappointed that tears were ready to fall.

'Oh mamma! you often said that we must help one another, and not find it difficult. You made a collar for Mrs. Lookina.... And if you do not go to the theatre I shall cry,' he added, quite unexpectedly beginning to weep.

'Don't, dearest, don't cry,' said his mother, taking her boy on her lap and kissing him; but the child wept, repeating continually:

'Poor mamma, you never can go to the theatre—you would so much like to go; I know it.'

'Well, well, I will go; only don't cry.'

Then his mamma went to Mrs. Lookina and asked her to give Basil some tea, put him to bed, and stay with him until her return. When she was dressed she kissed her boy and set off.

Soon it was tea-time. Mrs. Lookina never before had had to give Basil his tea, and did not know that he took very weak tea. She poured him out some strong tea, and as the boy liked it very much, he took more of it than usual. Basil well remembered what his mamma said, and did not wish to tire Mrs. Lookina, so he told her he would undress himself and go to bed, and she might lock the door from the outside and go home.

'I shall not be afraid,' concluded he; 'and if anything happens, I shall knock like this.'

'But why, my boy? I can stay with you,' answered the neighbour.