Chapter II: Part 2

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.

[5] _Yegór_ means George in Russian.

'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

There 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.

'No, no, you have some work at home,' said Basil, and wrapping himself up in his quilt with decision, he closed his eyes and said: 'There, I am asleep already.'

'Very well, my boy,' said Mrs. Lookina, smiling; 'but you must promise me to knock as soon as you need anything.'

'Yes, yes; I shall knock this way,' and kneeling up on his bed, Basil showed how he would knock.

Mrs. Lookina left him. Basil heard her leaving their lodging, taking the candle with her; heard her locking the door. And now Basil was alone. All was quiet around. He opened his eyes; all was dark. Basil felt uneasy, to tell the truth, but he tried not to think about it; he again closed his eyes, and turned his back to the wall. A long time he lay thus, and the strong tea he had taken kept him awake. He began to rock himself slightly in his bed and sing--

'Sleep, sleep, come to me.
Sleep, sleep, take me now.
Sleep, lull me into sleep.'

Basil repeated these words several times, and all at once it seemed to him as if the room were not as dark as before. He opened his eyes wide, and was lost in astonishment. The room was full of pale light--something like moonlight--and not far from his bed Basil noticed a queer little being. It was a tiny little old man, not more than six inches high. He wore a short jacket made of red corn-poppy petals; his trousers were of the same material; his arms and legs were very thin, like poppy stems, and he wore green stockings; his shoes and gloves were composed of green poppy leaves. But the Old Man's head was the most interesting part of his little person. It was a little round head, perfectly bald and brown, just like the dried fruit of a poppy. On his head there was a crown such as you see in the poppy. His face was brown also; it was calm and kind. He smiled fondly as he looked on Basil. Above the Little Man's head trembled a bluish flame, from which spread an agreeable light about the room. This flame did not touch the Old Man's head, but it followed him. When the Little Man stooped, the flame stooped also; when he rose, it rose with him.

'You called me?' asked he of Basil. His voice was so agreeable, and sounded so like that of an old acquaintance.

'I--I--don't know,' stammered the child.

'But you could not fall asleep, and you kept repeating--

'"Sleep, sleep, come to me.
Sleep, sleep, take me now.
Sleep, lull me into sleep."'

'Yes, Mr. Old Man, I have been repeating all this, but I did not mean to disturb you; it is hard to be under an obligation to any one. I am not afraid to be alone, Mr. Old Man.'

'Oh!' said the Old Man, smiling, 'where did you learn such words; of all things, as _to be under an obligation_? He! he! he!'

'No, no, Mr. Old Man; you see, I told Mrs. Lookina to go home. Why should I disturb you? You have your own business.'

'Ho! ho! ho!' laughed the Old Man. 'What a sensible young man you are! But don't trouble yourself about this. My duty consists in being where people want to sleep, so you only help me to do what I ought to do. You want to sleep, don't you?'

'Yes, Mr. Old Man.'

'And so I will put you to sleep if you like, soundly.' Then the Little Old Man began to blink with evident enjoyment, and to yawn slowly and loudly. Somebody immediately yawned in answer, and Basil, who had also a great desire to yawn, looked around. He saw to his great astonishment that at the foot of his bed sat a new old man. It was he who had yawned in answer to the first Old Man.

This Old Man much resembled the other, only he was a little smaller. His jacket and trousers were made of lilac poppy petals instead of red ones, and he had no light on his head.

'Listen, Basil,' said the little lilac-coloured creature, and with a gentle voice, like a mother telling fairy tales to her child, he began to speak:

'A gnat was born on the moors. It stood on its thin little legs, it spread its wings, and thought to itself: "It is time to fly after some booty! If I meet a man or a bull, I will eat him up."

'The gnat flew away, spread its little legs in the wind, and vanished. Hardly anybody would notice it--so small, and thin, and weak it was. Nevertheless, as it flew, it blew its own trumpets--

'"Fi-fo-fum!
Here I come!
I will slay
Man and beast!
I will feast
All the day!"

'Whether the gnat flew for a long or a short time no one knows. Anyhow it came to a reddish mound. This was a heap of bricks. Some time ago a hut stood here, but the hut had been burnt down; its brick stove had fallen to pieces, and now stood in view--a heap of fragments. The gnat looked at the mound and thought: "This is a fine portion; it will just suit my appetite." It flew with all its might, settled on a brick, then flew on to another, and tried to drive its proboscis into it. The gnat held the brick fast, and fought with its proboscis the best it could; but it found it hard. Brick was brick, you know; it was not soft stuff. The gnat raced from place to place. It tried the brick in every way, but without avail.

'"No," thought the gnat, "this does not please me; it is not worth while troubling about." It moved on again, and flew away. It flew on and blew its own trumpets--

'"Fi-fo-fum!
Here I come!
I will slay
Man and beast!
I will feast
All the day!"

'Presently the gnat came across something large and high, surmounted by a sharp-pointed deep-green dunce's cap. It was a fir-tree with resin oozing out.

'The gnat thought: "This is more in my line; this will suit my appetite; I will begin at this yellow spot."

'It flew towards the resin, and, settling down, drove its proboscis into it. Oh, wonder! It was bitter and sticky. The gnat after a great effort dragged its proboscis out, and then tried to free its legs. It tugged and tugged, and managed to free five, but could not succeed with the sixth.

'The gnat got angry. "Let go," he called to the fir-tree; "I know a trick worth two of that." But the fir-tree held the leg tight. The gnat got still angrier; dashed about until its leg came off, and then flew away with only five legs; the sixth had remained in the resin. It flew on, and again blew its own trumpets--

'"Fi-fo-fum!
Here I come!
I will slay
Man and beast!
I will feast
All the day!"

'A tale is quicker told than actions can be done.

'Our gnat flew over hill and vale, furrowed fields, green meadows, 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.

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.

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?'