Chapter II: Part 2

Suddenly Draga knew how glad she was to stay, how proud that she could hold her place among the other girls; and she realized that her parents too, as much as they missed her, would rather leave her than take her back. Together they were all working for the future.

THE TRUCE

When Rastem was born his father hung a gun and a cartridge belt on the wall for him. There they were to stay until Rastem was fourteen years old, when he would take them down himself and wear the belt and carry the gun for the first time. Meanwhile, he began his life in a little painted cradle, into which his mother strapped him so tightly that he could move neither legs, arms nor head, but lay like a little mummy, completely covered with a rough homespun blanket.

Rastem lived in Albania, the land of the mountain eagle. His home was in a strange old town perched so high on a mountain-top that the clouds hung over it like a dark flat roof so that the cocks crowed all day, as they do when calling the hens to shelter from a storm.

Rastem’s father was a well-to-do man, and the family lived in a pleasant house the plastered walls of which were painted with birds and foliage. There were many slatted windows and a cheery tiled roof with broad eaves.

Next door to Rastem lived Marko, a boy of about his own age. Though their families never visited each other, and though the gate between the two yards was kept locked, the two little boys had discovered one another as soon as they began to walk; and gazing through the openings in the fence of woven branches that separated them, they had quickly come to an understanding. Later on, they worried a passage under the hedge through which they crawled freely to pass long hours of play together. They did not understand why at first Marko was scowled at when he went to Rastem’s house and Rastem was scowled at when he went to Marko’s house; but as neither of the boys was contented long without the other, their elders soon let them go and come as they liked.

When they grew older and mingled with other children they found out what the trouble was. Between the two families there was what in Albania is called a blood feud; that is, someone in Marko’s family had shot someone in Rastem’s family during a quarrel, and had killed him. It had happened a long time before. The man who had shot the other had fled to a foreign country and his children had grown up there; but until someone in Rastem’s family shot a man in Marko’s family the feud could not end, nor was the honor of Rastem’s family clear.

That old quarrel of the grown people seemed a far-off, foolish thing to the boys, and no concern of theirs. They looked into each other’s eyes and grinned in perfect comradeship when the larger boys urged them to fight it out together. There was too much fun to be had out of life to waste time in quarreling; and Kruja, that strange old town, was not a bad place to grow up in. Its one long, curving street, which skirted the mountain-side like a tail, was crowded with open booths and was so narrow that the roofs met overhead. Here on market days were the clack and tap of little hoofs as the donkeys pushed through the crowd with broad loads of hides and wood or with saddlebags stuffed with lambs or a baby or two. And there the coppersmiths beat out trays and water pots before one’s eyes. The shoemakers cut the delicately curved slippers from scarlet or orange or black leather, the hatters shaped a white or red fez over a block of wood, and artificers in silver polished pistol handles as thickly set with bright stones as a plum pudding is with raisins.

There was also the barber, a white bearded Turk in a heavy turban and a robe of gold-colored silk, sitting on green cushions amid basins and jars of polished copper. Then, too, there was the amusing Mohammedan who called to prayer from the white minaret. He came at certain hours into the tiny balcony that swung out under the spiked roof of the minaret, took hold of his ears in a comical manner and uttered a harsh and dismal shout, which was echoed by the wall of rock behind him.

Far above the point of the minaret towered a cliff, on the summit of which a battered castle with one square tower was blocked against the sky. There were strange tales about the castle, which Rastem learned when he began to grow up, and here the boys played at the game of defending the castle against the Turks, sending stones thundering into the depths of the ravine below as their ancestors had done in the days of Skanderbeg, when the Turks had conquered the country, to rule it cruelly for hundreds of years, until at last, through the great War, Albania regained her freedom.

The boys realized dimly that something glorious had happened; but they did not know how great a change had come over their country, for life in Kruja had not changed much since the war, except to grow harder. Every one was poor and wore old clothes, which was a hardship for the Albanians, who love their gorgeous costumes. Fortunately they have strong homespun, which lasts for years. Rastem wore trousers of rough white woolen material braided with black, a Skanderbeg jacket, and sandals of cowhide.

A few days before Rastem’s fourteenth birthday his father found him looking longingly at the gun on the wall. ‘I am sorry, Rastem,’ he said gravely, ‘that you and Marko are such friends. It can bring you nothing but sorrow.’

‘Why sorrow?’ asked Rastem, startled.

‘Why? Because of the feud between us,’ said his father. ‘It rests with you to clear the family honor. You don’t take it seriously now, but when you and Marko are men, either you will shoot him or he will shoot you.’

‘Shoot Marko? Never!’ exclaimed Rastem with flaming cheeks and eyes.

‘It is the law of your country and your tribe. You cannot change it,’ said his father; ‘it is written in the Canon of Lek.’ And he left the room.

Rastem was angry and excited. All the pleasure in his gun was gone.

In order to get away from the sight of it, he went into his mother’s room. It was a homelike place. The wooden ceiling was painted green, with bunches of flowers. There was a warm-colored rug on the floor, and a divan covered with carpets ran the length of one side, under a row of latticed windows. In the little open cupboards in the walls Rastem’s mother kept spices and perfumes and sweets. There were no chairs, but two sides of the room were skirted by a low platform of brickwork, over which were spread mats and cushions. On the bricks stood a brazier of glowing coals. Rastem sat down cross-legged and spread his hands to the warmth. The room was fragrant and drowsy. Outside, the rain slapped against the window and a mass of cloud surging up from the valley blotted out the world.

The boy was very wretched. He had been taught to do many things that seem strange to us, but were quite right to him, such as taking off his shoes when he entered a house, keeping his hat on at the table, and eating his mutton and rice with his fingers. So when he was told by his father that he must shoot his best friend he had a sickening fear that after all he might be forced to do it if he could not find a way out.

‘Skanderbeg kept his sword for his enemies,’ he reasoned, ‘not for his friends.’ Now that Albania was at last free from the Turks, it would be a fine thing indeed for Albanians to begin to kill one another! It was unthinkable that he should shoot Marko. He _must_ find a way out!

There were the two men from Tirana and Kruja, he pondered. They had had a feud, but they had sworn a _besa_ or truce for six weeks, in order to carry out a cattle deal; and they had laughed together and visited like good friends. To be sure, when the six weeks were up, they had shot at each other and one of them had lost two fingers. Why had they not done business and enjoyed each other for a longer _besa_?

And then an idea came to Rastem! He struck his hands together and rushed out of the house. ‘Marko!’ he called, tearing at the gate. And Marko met him halfway, under the big olive tree.

‘Look here, Marko,’ said Rastem, ‘why can’t we end this feud, not by shooting each other, but by swearing a _besa_ for the rest of our lives? The old quarrel isn’t our affair, but the _besa will be_, and we’ve got to keep it. So long as we do, no one can hurt us.’

‘So long as we keep the _besa_, no one can hurt us,’ repeated Marko slowly. ‘Why, of course! Why did we never think of that, Rastem?’ he cried, excitedly.

Under the olive tree, the two boys clasped hands and swore eternal friendship while far above them two mountain eagles circled slowly on flat wings round the Skanderbeg tower, and through the breaking clouds the Adriatic gleamed like a streak of silver on the horizon.

THE SKANDERBEG JACKET

Five hundred years ago a boy named George Kastriota leaned over the wall of his father’s castle and peered into the depths of the gorge below. He could see a little white goat far down, just above the line of mist that hid the bottom of the chasm. She was cropping the fresh leaves of a bush, which had taken root in a cracked rock. George watched her, fascinated. Would she try to come higher? Yes, she did. At least she raised her head. But when she saw the wall of sheer stone that rose above her, she flicked her tail and bounded downward instead. George laughed, and shouted back to his brothers, who were playing in the courtyard, that not even a goat could scale the walls! There was a merry romping troop of children in the castle. How safe they felt up there under the sky!

Their father was a Prince of the Albanian mountain tribes who call themselves ‘Men of the Eagles.’ His fortress stood on the Rock of Kruja, with the mountain dropping steeply from it. Only on one side a rugged path led up to the gateway. Over this went and came a stream of wiry mountain ponies and their riders, bringing provisions and arms and messages to the inmates of the castle.

Most of them wore short jackets of rough white wool with tight sleeves to the elbow, large white pompons in front of their shoulders, and square collars with fringe, which hung to their waists behind. When it rained heavily, as it often does on the Rock, they drew the heavy collars over their heads, crossing the fringe and holding it firmly between their teeth. This left both hands free for weapons, and weapons were needed in those days. Prince Kastriota was away fighting most of the time, and with him the Men of the Eagles, trying to press back the Turks who more and more were mastering the country.

But the people in the castle felt safe, though they knew there were enemies in the land. George and his brothers and sisters often played at defending the fortress, dropping stones over the wall and listening to hear them thud in the depths, or they amused themselves by looking down on the village people as they gathered around the great ‘Kruja,’ or fountain, with their water pots, and stopped to talk about the army of Turks who were conquering the lowlands.

At one corner of the castle a great tower of white stone stood out against the background of gray rock. This was the watch-tower. From it the young Kastriotas could see clear across Albania, from the sharp mountains, over the hot plain and the steaming marshes to the sea, which seemed to lie forever in sunshine, no matter how dark it might be on the Rock.

Every road and trail was visible from the tower, for the mountains were bare, except where olive groves had been planted just below the castle. For miles around no enemy could approach unseen. Sometimes the watchers saw dark patches moving across the plain, and knew that they were troops of Turkish soldiers.

So things went for years. At last when George was nine years old, a terrible thing happened. The dark patches grew larger and came closer, until the people of the castle, looking anxiously over the wall, could see bands of Turkish cavalry driving the Men of the Eagles before them toward the mountains. On they came, until Prince Kastriota, riding hard with only a handful of men, reached the castle to tell his family that Albania was lost, and that he should have to make such terms as he could with the Turks; it was useless to try to hold the castle against them.

The Sultan agreed to let the Prince go on living in the castle at Kruja, but he would have to give up his four sons as hostages, and the Albanians would have to pay a yearly tribute.

Kastriota took his boys aside and explained to them what it meant to be a hostage; that so long as he, their father, did not rebel against the Sultan, the boys were safe, but if there should be an uprising in Albania they would be put to death; also, that if they did not obey the Sultan and keep faith with him, the Men of the Eagles would be made to suffer. The boys bravely promised to play the game, but it must have been a sad day at Kruja when the Sultan rode away with his young captives.

The boys were treated honorably; they were given fine horses, and perhaps they enjoyed much of the journey, for they were used to hard travel in the saddle, and did not tire easily. Once beyond the barrier of their own mountains, they crossed the great tableland of Macedonia, more open than any country they had known, where firm roads made by the Romans centuries before led past cities and castles, and by beautiful churches and convents built by Bulgarians and Serbs, but now all under the hand of the Turk.

At last they entered Thrace and came to Adrianople, where the Sultan lived--if you wish to look for it on the map you will find it south of Bulgaria. The palace at Adrianople was very different from the castle at Kruja. It stood on the hot plain instead of among the cool mountains, and it was filled with a soft luxury that did not exist in the home on the Rock. It was beautiful with marbles and mosaics, with gardens and fountains. There were rugs and hangings, silks and perfumes such as George had never before known.

George was a kind, brave boy, quick to learn. He won the heart of the Sultan, who was kind to him and brought him up with his own children. He never forgot his parents on the dear Rock, but since he was only nine years old when he was taken as a hostage, he soon lost his homesickness and began to make friends about him. The Sultan gave him a new name, Skanderbeg, from _Skander_, which means Alexander, because the mother of Alexander the Great had been an Albanian, and _beg_ or prince, because he was of high rank.

So Skanderbeg began his new life. He learned to ride and hunt and fight. When he was eighteen years old the Sultan put him in command of an army and sent him into Asia Minor, which, you will see, is not far from Adrianople.

Perhaps Skanderbeg would always have remained the Sultan’s friend if his brothers had been treated kindly. But when his father, John Kastriota, died, the Sultan poisoned all three of them and annexed Albania to his empire. After that, Skanderbeg went about with an angry heart under his armor, and when the Sultan had a new war on his hands and sent the young captain to fight the Hungarians, he looked for his chance to escape.

He had no quarrel with the Hungarians. All he wanted was to be free; free to go back to his own people, whom he now knew to be unhappy and oppressed. He wanted to escape from the soft life of Adrianople and to be back in Albania among the rocks and the Men of the Eagles in their white jackets, helping them to regain their freedom. In his army there were many Albanians who, like him, had been taken to Turkey as prisoners and made to fight for the Sultan. These men joined Skanderbeg, and together they escaped across Serbia and through the dangerous mountain passes into Albania.

The people came down from the mountains and flocked to Skanderbeg. The Turks were driven out of the country and for twenty-five years--as long as Skanderbeg lived--Albania was free.

So George Kastriota came back to Kruja to be the helper and the hero of his people. When he died the grief of the tribesmen was so great that they dyed their white jackets black, and so they are worn to this day.

You will see the Skanderbeg jacket everywhere in Northern Albania--on the shepherds of the hills; on the men of the many tribes who come riding to market on their wiry ponies, their deep collars drawn over their heads to protect them from rain or sun; and on the metal workers and the farmers of Kruja, who linger about the great fountain which still gushes out from the rock below the ruined castle.

MIRKO AND MARKO

Mirko and Marko were two gay little Montenegrin pigs. They had the freedom of the Ivanovitch kitchen, where they lived in peace and plenty, and as they were plump and handsome, every one admired them. Zorka alone did not think of them in terms of bacon and sausage. To her they were playfellows.

Zorka’s father worked in the sawmill, her grandmother kept the house, and Zorka kept the pigs. The length of their life was one bright summer, spent for the most part with Zorka under spreading beech trees or along roadways thick with tufted clover.

One evening, as they came home through the shady village, an old blind man sat in the square singing as he strummed on a one-stringed fiddle. He was a wandering minstrel or _gouslar_, and he sang the deeds of heroes and the triumph of courage over loss and suffering.

The song was as wild and sad as the hills that are dark with firs, but the villagers crowded about the singer, for they loved the brave tales of their people, who had never lost their strip of bare mountain or their freedom. Zorka tiptoed closer and gazed at the old man. He had only one eye, but that was as keen as a hawk’s. A flat skullcap slanted over his gray hair. He wore a long, dark green coat edged with silver braid, blue knee breeches and a crimson waistcoat, faded but heavy with rich embroidery.

Fascinated, Zorka hovered on the edge of the circle, listening to his shrill chant. The pigs trotted on contentedly toward home.

On the way their greed led them into a wild adventure. A plank bridged the swift mill-race, which skirted the road and led to the watermill on the opposite side.

The pigs had passed this plank every day of their lives, and had always longed to cross it, for they could smell the fresh meal from afar; but if they so much as pointed their greedy, pink noses in that direction someone appeared in the doorway brandishing a stick and Zorka jerked them anxiously back by their tails. Now Zorka was not with them and there was no one in the doorway. It stood open, and the sunlight fell on a silvery heap of meal on the floor under the mill stone. Its fragrance floated to them. Their stiff little hoofs tapped across the gangway and they plunged up to their ears in the soft, delicious mess. Then, as they wallowed blissfully, there came a sudden _whack_, _whack_, on their plump backs, and the angry voice of the miller’s wife drowned their terrified squeals. In a cloud of flying meal they scurried back over the plank out of reach of the cudgel, making a bee line for the safety of their own kitchen.

But the miller’s wife had other ways of reaching them than with a stick. She stopped Zorka’s father as he was going home to supper. ‘The next time,’ she cried angrily, ‘I’ll cut their throats and hang their hams in the chimney!’

The threat troubled Zorka’s father, who feared that he might have to pay for the spoiled meal. He went home with a deep frown between his brows. ‘That settles it,’ he said, ‘those pigs must go to market to-morrow. They are as fat as young geese now, and should bring a good price, but another scrape like to-day’s would wipe out all the profit.’

Zorka, crossing the threshold, heard the fatal words, and her heart stood still. The five minutes that she had spent in listening to the _gouslar_ had perhaps cost the lives of her playmates. She took her place at the table speechless with dismay. There was a nice mutton stew, with beans and gravy, but Zorka could swallow hardly a mouthful. Her gaze was fixed on two sleek forms sleeping in the shadow of a bench by the door, their sides rising and falling peacefully.

Her father made plans quickly. He himself could not go to market, for his work at the sawmill kept him, and the grandmother was too old for the hard journey. Zorka’s aunt was going, but she had two donkeys laden with firewood, and a third on which her baby in one saddlebag would balance a young kid and some turnips in the other. She could not be expected to look after two frisky pigs. Zorka must go with her and take Mirko and Marko safely to the market at Podgoritza.

This filled Zorka’s heart with tumult. The journey was an event. She had made it only once in her life, and that once so long ago that she could hardly remember it. The market town lay almost at the other end of Montenegro. It would take two days on foot to reach it. They would have to go down, down from the wooded valley where the village of Kolashin lay, through bare, rocky gorges, crossing and recrossing a wild river many times, with the gray walls of the mountains towering high above them.

There would be many people going from the village, and others would join them on the road, coming from high places in the hills and deep places in the blue valleys. They would eat their meals along the way--meals of leeks and milk-white cheese, with black bread, and sometimes they would stop at a tavern or a friend’s house to drink thick, sweet Turkish coffee from little brass cups.

There would be gossip and music and laughter all the way down to Podgoritza, but Mirko and Marko would not return from the fair. Their blithe life spent in hunting for the best fodder along the brook would be over.

So the next morning big tears stood on Zorka’s cheeks as she tied a yellow handkerchief over her head and bound her sandals. She let Mirko and Marko out of their comfortable pen, fed them an exquisite breakfast of boiled potatoes and milk, then washed and dried them before she joined her Aunt Basilika on the edge of the village. There a group of people were loading their donkeys under the beech trees. As most of the wood for building and burning in Montenegro comes from the Valley of Kolashin and the mountains behind it, many people were carrying firewood or charcoal for sale. Others had potatoes or walnuts, eggs and cheese or great sacks of wool. There were droves of sheep and goats, and a few cows. The cattle had to be driven slowly in order not to run all their fat off before they reached the market.

Mirko and Marko joined the procession in high spirits. The smell of garden stuff and grain was enticing to them, and Zorka had to put them on a string to keep them from racing ahead under the feet of the donkeys. Long after the sun had risen for the rest of the world, the path that the market-goers followed lay in twilight, for eastward the mountains rose in a sheer wall that seemed to touch the sky.

In half an hour they had left the cool, green valley hung like a hammock between wooded mountains, and were winding their way through a stony land where there was no sprig of grass, but where the wild pomegranate bushes springing from crevices splashed their flame-like blossoms over the rocks. The mountain-sides were so steep that no soil clung to them, or if any did the first rushing rain washed it away. Here and there were what are called pot-holes, where long ago some whirling stream had kept a stone spinning round and round until it had ground a hollow in the rock. The stream had dried up or found a new course, but the hollow remained, like a stone bowl. Such soil as caught there was not washed away, as on the slope. People living near such pockets brought baskets and aprons full of earth and made precious little gardens of the hollows. Zorka could look down from the road and count the number of cabbages and potatoes growing in them.

Sometimes the travelers stopped at a spring to rest. Then Zorka would take Mirko and Marko by turns in her lap. The little pigs slept soundly, tired out by the rough trot over a rocky road instead of over the sod that they were used to.

When night came Aunt Basilika knocked at the door of a friend who lived near the road. A woman came out, throwing her arms wide in welcome. She kissed Zorka and Basilika on both cheeks and pulled the baby joyfully from the saddlebag.

There was room for the donkeys and the pigs in the sheepfold, which was a snug cave in the side of the hill. Shepherd boys brought straw and corn and water, and when the beasts were comfortable the family went into the house.

Zorka looked at it in amazement, for it was very different from her own home. That was built of wood with a shingled roof and a border of carving below the eaves. This valley house was of the rough stones of the hillside without mortar or plaster. The thatched roof was held in place by logs and stones. There were no windows and there was no chimney, but the smoke from the hearth, which was in the middle of the floor, found its way through the loose weave of the thatch.

The boys built a wood fire and their mother put over it a pot of soup. They were very poor people, but eager to share everything they had with their friends. They gave them their mattresses, spreading Zorka’s near the fire; they themselves slept on the ground.

The next night the market-goers camped on the edge of the town of Podgoritza. Zorka fell asleep to the stamping and grunting of animals and the jingling of bridles. At dawn every one was up, preparing coffee and putting on holiday clothes. Aunt Basilika took a long black skirt and white linen blouse from her saddlebags. Over them she wore a long sleeveless coat of robin’s-egg blue with a border of pale gold balls. She tied a dark handkerchief over her head, and on it set a tiny skullcap of black silk. Most of the women wore bright blue coats that had been a part of their wedding outfit. Their finery was shabby and faded, for no one had had new clothes since the war. As for the children who had outgrown their good garments, they were dressed for the most part in gunny sacks sewed together with ravelings.

Zorka was better off. She wore a gray homespun dress and had an orange-colored handkerchief over her head, and sandals of cowhide on her feet. The journey from Kolashin had been so gay that she had forgotten the purpose of it. Now it came over her with fright.

Mirko and Marko were restless and hungry. They rooted about, seeking the juicy clover of home in the sparse grass and weeds of the market place. Zorka watched them with an aching heart. If she saw a business-like man approaching, she stood in front of the little pigs to hide them or gathered them into her lap drawing her skirt over their heads, determined not to sell them. But as the day wore on and no one offered a price for them, she grew indignant. Were they not the most beautiful pigs in the market? How could anyone pass them unnoticed?

As evening drew on she began to wonder what her father would say if she had to take Mirko and Marko back with her. She knew that he was counting on the money that they would bring. This was probably the last chance before spring to sell them. How could they be fed during the long winter?

Aunt Basilika had only a few fagots left. When those were sold she would pack her bags with the winter store that she had purchased, and she and Zorka would climb into the wooden saddles and begin the long homeward journey that very night. How would the short fat legs of Mirko and Marko make the uphill grade?

Twilight was already flooding the Plain of Podgoritza when a man rode up looking for firewood. Seeing Basilika’s fagots he went toward her, and then, peering through the dusk, exclaimed, ‘Why, it’s Basilika Ivanova!’

He was an old friend of Zorka’s father, a well-to-do merchant of Podgoritza. ‘And so this is Ivan’s daughter,’ he said, smiling at Zorka; ‘but what fine pigs you have! Are they for sale?’

Zorka began to cry. ‘They’re not just pigs,’ she said. ‘They’re Mirko and Marko, and I don’t want them killed.’

‘Oh, I don’t kill such wee piggies,’ said the merchant. ‘They will grow to be grandfathers if you sell them to me; and I promise you they will live in a fine pen.’

Zorka dried her eyes, and under her breath named the price that her father had told her to ask. The merchant counted out silver and copper coins in her hand. She stowed them carefully away in the pocket of her petticoat, and then going down on her knees she hugged each little pig and kissed him on the top of his silly head before their new owner dropped them into his big saddlebags. They squealed wildly at first, but when Zorka patted them they settled down quietly on the straw with which the bags were lined.

The merchant took an orange and a shilling from his pocket. ‘Zorka Ivanova,’ he said gently, ‘you have taken good care of your pigs, and made them worth a fine price.’ With that he rode off in one direction, and soon Zorka and her aunt had packed their possessions and were turning in the other. Basilika went lightly, having sold her wares, but Zorka climbed the mountain with a pocketful of money, an orange, and a heartache.

TODOR’S BEST CLOTHES

The adventures of Todor began suddenly, one day, when he was going home from school with a strapful of books over his shoulder. He had almost reached home when a dog chasing a white kitten rushed madly from an alley. Instantly Todor swung his load of books into the dog’s face. The kitten escaped up a tree, but the angry dog sprang at Todor tearing his coat and biting his arm. At that moment two men appeared pursuing the dog, one with a pistol. There was a sharp crack and the dog rolled over dead.

‘He was mad!’ cried the frightened men. ‘You’ve no time to lose, Todor.’

They rushed the boy home, and within an hour, dressed in his best clothes, with his arm bandaged, he had boarded an express train for Sofia. His father was with him. In Bulgaria it is the law that when anyone is bitten by a mad dog, he must go straight to the Pasteur Institute in Sofia, for treatment at government expense.

In Sofia, Todor was placed in a cottage near the hospital, where he was to live while he took the treatment. The cottage was kept by a kind woman named Martha, who had two boys of her own, Bogdan and Boris. There Todor’s father left him and went back to his home in Sliven, a town in Eastern Bulgaria.

Then began a strange and exciting life for Todor. Never before had he been out of his home town; and now, except that he had to report every day to the doctor, he had his time to himself and a great city to explore. It was jolly to have Bogdan and Boris to talk things over with in the evening, but they were in school most of the day. So Todor wandered the streets of Sofia alone, amazed at the great buildings and the shop windows full of beautiful things. But sometimes he glanced uneasily at his clothes, for he realized that he was differently dressed from the people about him. Usually, however, he was too much absorbed in what he saw to think much of what he had on. The Sunday suit that he wore was the fashion in Sliven. It had the wide, homespun brown trousers almost like a Dutch boy’s; a close-fitting sleeveless jacket of brocaded silk, in old rose, black and white, with handsome silver buttons; a crimson sash and a jaunty brown woolen cap. When he could find a flower he stuck it in his belt. In Sofia, where the men and boys dress much as they do in America, Todor made a vivid spot of color in the gray streets, and people noticed the fair-haired boy as he wandered about alone. And in the end it was his clothes that helped him most in his adventures.

One day he happened to be passing a schoolhouse just at recess time, and stopped to watch the boys. He would never have dreamed that the great beautiful building was a schoolhouse had it not been for the game of ball that was going on. As he was watching it excitedly, the ball flew over the wall, and Todor, springing into the air, caught it dextrously and hurled it back. A cheer went up from the boys. ‘Come on in and play!’ they cried, for they had seen his bright garments over the wall. But just then the bell rang and the pupils stormed up the steps, Todor with them, for he wanted to see the inside of that fine school building. As the boys slipped into their classrooms, Todor was left alone in the great corridor. He was stealing away shyly when one of the masters caught sight of him.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you are from Sliven! So am I!’ and he invited Todor into his classroom, where the pupils were studying a great raised map of the Balkan Mountains. It was easy to see how they ran across Bulgaria, nearly up to the Danube, and down into Macedonia and Greece. When the master explained that Todor came from Sliven, his own home town, every one wanted to find it on the map. There was the famous Pass of the Wild Rose, too, where the attar of roses is distilled, and where a great battle for Bulgarian freedom was fought; and there was Tirnovo, the old capital of the kingdom. Todor went home much pleased with this, his first adventure.

In the midst of Sofia there is a handsome house with bright awnings and a beautiful lawn. It stands behind walls and large trees, but on one side, in a curve of the street, there is a gate that stands always open, and on each side of it a soldier in a sentry box. Over the gate are the arms of Bulgaria, for the house is the home of Boris, the King.

Todor had a great desire to see the King, and spent hours on the corner opposite the gate, waiting for him to appear, but in vain. One morning he took up his post as usual, and as he did so a young man in gray riding-clothes came down the drive on a bay horse. He was slight and kindly-looking, with a clipped black moustache. As he turned into the street, Todor, bright against the stone wall, caught his eye. He reined in quickly, and as he did so his riding-crop slipped to the ground. Todor sprang forward and handed it up to him. The man smiled pleasantly.

‘Aren’t you a Sliven boy?’ he asked.

‘I am, Sir,’ replied Todor.

‘And what are you doing here?’

‘Waiting to see the King come out, Sir.’

‘Well, I’m the King. Are you satisfied with me?’

‘God keep you, Sir,’ said the lad simply; ‘I had thought to see you more bravely dressed.’

The King laughed. ‘That’s for the men of Sliven,’ he said. Then he leaned down and shook hands with Todor, and was off.

Todor stood rooted to the spot. He had seen the King, and picked up his riding-whip, had talked with him and shaken hands!

That was adventure enough for one day. He spent the afternoon in the vacant lot behind the cottage, telling the boys of the neighborhood about it.

One day, with a feeling of awe, Todor came in sight of a great white church with gilded domes. It was all perfectly new, without a stain of soot or age, and its marble and gold glistened in the sunlight under the hot blue sky. Inside, the walls and ceilings were covered with great paintings and mosaics. Todor tiptoed over the polished marble floors, subdued by the lofty grandeur of the place; yet he did not feel like saying his prayers in it. It was all so new that it seemed to him as though God had not yet got used to it.

On his way home, passing a dusty square, he turned in at a gateway in a wall to see what might be behind it. To his surprise he found himself in a large, quiet courtyard, on one side of which was a tiny low church. It was so low that the roof came down almost to the ground, with only a row of small windows below the eaves. Through a covered porch, steps led downward to the church, which was mostly underground.

Todor knew that it had been built long ago when the Turks had first come into the land and had made it unlawful for Christians to build their churches more than a few feet high. There were churches like that all over Bulgaria. Often, because the people were forbidden to make the exteriors beautiful, they put all the more loving thought inside. So in this little church there were a beautiful screen of carved wood, lovely lamps and soft, faded hangings on the walls. The stones of the floor were worn by the knees of many generations.

The little church was empty now, and dusky in the waning light. Todor, feeling at home there, knelt in a dim corner. An old man came in, moved about and went out shutting the door behind him; but until Todor got up to go, he did not realize that the old man was the sexton, and that he had locked the church for the night and gone home for his supper.

Todor banged loudly and called for help, but there was no reply. He was very near to tears as he went to the end of the porch and crouched there, wondering what he should do. The church was almost dark now, lonely and silent as a tomb. Suddenly a rustle in a red curtain, which hung across a corner, brought his heart into his mouth. He was sure that the curtain shook, and now that he fastened his eyes on it, was there not a bright eye gazing at him through a slit? As he watched breathlessly, a little old man suddenly popped out a bald head.

‘So you got locked in, too?’ he chuckled. He came out and stood before Todor, a dry, wheezy, ragged, old man, the beggar who sat at the church door during the day, asking for alms.

‘How can we get out?’ gasped Todor. ‘Help me!’

‘I don’t want to get out,’ said the beggar. ‘You see, I share the Lord’s House with Him.’ With that he brought out a paper bag, and, settling himself on the flags beside Todor, took out a lump of bread and some cheese.

‘Do you sleep here?’ asked Todor, amazed.

‘Yes, in summer. It is a safe, quiet place; and the Lord, being a good, kind God, does not object. He’s glad to save an old man from the street.’

‘Look here!’ said Todor. ‘Put your hands on your knees and let me get on your shoulder and see if I can open a window.’

The old man did as Todor requested, but the windows were as tight as if they had been soldered, and an iron bar across the middle of each of them would have prevented Todor from squeezing through even if he could have opened them. The church was quite dark now, and after Todor had gone back to the porch disconsolately, the beggar lighted a candle and with a few drops of hot wax sealed it to the floor.

‘Have a pear,’ he said, kindly, wiping one on his dirty sleeve; and Todor, who was thirsty, peeled it carefully with his pocket knife and ate it with relish. The old man then began telling Todor stories of the strange eastern city in which they were staying--stories of refugees and bandits, of their secret meeting-places, and their caves in the mountains, until Todor forgot that he would have to spend the night on the cold stones. But as they were talking there came the shuffle of feet on the steps outside, and the murmur of voices.

In a flash the beggar knocked over the candle. ‘Don’t tell on me, don’t tell on me!’ he squeaked, as he flew to the curtain.

But Todor was already shaking the door. ‘Let me out!’ he cried. When the door swung open, there stood Martha and Bogdan, under the light of the sexton’s lantern.

How had they known where to look for him? It was because a policeman on duty had noticed Todor’s gay costume as he turned in at the church that evening. So, when Martha sent in an alarm, the policeman told her to go first to the sexton.

As they went home through the hot, dusty night, Todor was careful to say nothing about the beggar, for he was sure that the old man would be turned out if it were known that he slept in the church.

Todor was so grateful to Martha for coming after him that next morning he said, ‘Let me go to the market for you to-day. What do you need?’

‘Get me a basket of peppers,’ said Martha, ‘and a good pink squash--I will bake it for you boys for supper.’

Todor knew how to select a squash, for he grew squashes himself. While he was choosing one, an artist passed through the market.

‘What a picture!’ she cried, as she saw Todor in his rich costume.

Then, because she did not speak Bulgarian, she found an interpreter to ask Todor to sit for his picture in a near-by garden; and Todor, who by this time expected something new to happen every day, sent his basket of peppers home by another boy, and tucking the pink squash under his arm, set off willingly, wondering what this new adventure would be like.

By means of signs and a word or two, the artist made Todor understand that she wished him to pose as if he were selecting a squash as he had done in the market. But that was not Todor’s idea of a portrait. When persons had their pictures taken, they sat down and looked properly dignified. He was willing to sit against the wall and hold the squash in his lap, though to his mind a squash had no place in a picture. But that is how the artist finally drew him. And what did Todor care when he saw the five _lev_ piece in his hand at the end of the sitting?

With a bright smile of thanks he raced off to buy something to take to his mother when he should go back to Sliven.

And now, if Todor could see himself in an American book, he would probably think it the greatest adventure of all.

KOSSOVO DAY

It was Kossovo Day, the 28th of June. Since sunrise people had been dancing the _kola_. Round and round they went, holding one another’s hands high in the air and stepping backward and forward with a swaying movement, as they turned in a great circle to the sound of a drum and a fiddle.

Any one could take part in the _kola_ when he liked. He had only to break into the ring, seize the hands of those next to him, and fall into step; or if he had gone round until he was dizzy, he could drop out as suddenly as he pleased, and fling himself on the grass to watch the fun.

From every little hamlet in the hills the people had come in their best clothes, bringing baskets of cherries or cheese or mushrooms to sell in the town; so there were always new ones to take part when the others were tired.

Peter and Pavlo had started early, in fresh white linen suits, with gay girdles. Between them they carried a great basket of cherries slung on a pole. The money from the sale of the cherries they must take home, but their grandmother had given them each two _groschen_ to spend on sweets.

First, however, they went to the schoolhouse, where the children were assembled to march in procession to the church. Mary was there too. She had managed to come, although she had had to bring the baby with her. Mary’s parents were Serbian, but she had been born in America and had gone to school there until she was ten years old. That was nearly a year ago. Then her father had brought the family back to his Serbian home to see his old mother. She had written to him in his American home: ‘The war is over. I live alone. Before I die, bring the wife and child, whom I have never seen,’ and she had sent money for the passage. So Mary’s father had taken her mother and her across the sea. There was no little brother then. He was born soon afterwards, and not many months later Mary’s grandmother had died, and left the cottage and the fruit orchard to her son. Now it seemed as if they might stay in Serbia.

Mary was not happy. She was homesick for her friends and her school life in Ohio, where she had always lived. Gutcha, her Serbian home, was a little mountain village where every one led a simple, out-door life, raising cattle and sheep and enough corn to make bread for the family. The house in which Mary lived was better than most, for it had a roof of tiles instead of thatch; the floors were of wood, and there was a built-in stove of brick and cement. But in Ohio Mary had lived in a flat with a bathroom, an ice-box and a gas stove in the kitchen. All those comforts she missed, and it often seemed to her that they did things in a poor way in Serbia. Most of all she missed Mamie Barnes. She and Mamie had begun life together in Kindergarten, and had been in the same class ever since. Here in Gutcha Mary did not go to school regularly, because of the baby. She adored him and had almost sole care of him, but that care kept her out of school.

The girls in Gutcha were shy and gentle, and stood in awe of Mary because of her fine clothes and because she spoke English. She was the only girl in Gutcha who did not own a distaff and knitting needles. All the others spent most of their time on the hillsides with the sheep, spinning and knitting the wool into stockings. They grew quiet and dreamy, and did not play in the romping way that had made life a joy in America. Mary liked the boys better. They were ready for fun, and they were not so rough and teasing as American boys. Besides, they honestly admired her.

Mary made herself ready for the Kossovo celebration with great care. She had heard that it was the Serbian Fourth of July and she hoped that there might be firecrackers and ice cream. She put on her white dress with embroidered ruffles, which had been bought in a department store in America, and which her mother had let down. She tied one big bow in her blue sash, topped her dark curls with another, and put on her white straw hat. She wore long white stockings and white shoes, and looked like any little American girl who was going to Sunday School. She had put a clean slip on the baby, and brown sandals with his white socks.

In the school yard Mary waited with the other children. The crowd of little girls smiled at her but stood apart, abashed by her elegance. They did not know how sweet they themselves looked under their pale yellow kerchiefs, in their beautiful homespun linen chemises embroidered on sleeves and front, their heavy skirts and silk aprons, all of such good stuff that only people of wealth could have bought them in America. They looked upon Mary as a princess, in her store-made clothes; but in reality she was a lonely little girl, longing to be friends and not knowing why the other girls did not like her. She felt that somehow she was different.

‘Hello!’ cried Peter, briskly, bursting in upon the girls, and Mary in her heart blessed him for it. The church bell was ringing now; or rather, since the bell had been carried off during the war, the priest came to the church door and banged on a pan with a great key, which did just as well. The church was so full that none of the children could set foot in it, but they all stood in a line on the grass, and caught the gleam of the women’s yellow handkerchiefs and the music of strong voices. After that they were free to go where they would and see the fun.

Mary put the baby on the grass and joined the dancers. She liked the plaintive Serbian music; but she felt that it was sad, and she longed for something rollicking and gay. How she had loved to spin about on the sidewalk with Mamie, to the rattle of a hurdy-gurdy!

She soon dropped out from the ring and sat down with a group of girls to listen to an old man who was singing and playing the _gousle_. The _gousle_ is an instrument like a one-stringed fiddle. It has but a few notes and those are mournful, but when it is well played, to the airs of the old Serbian songs, there is something stirring and heart-searching in it. Mary felt it without being able to explain it to herself. She was fascinated and troubled, for though she could not understand all that the old man sang, it seemed to her to be the tale of a great disaster connected with the Plain of Kossovo.

‘What is Kossovo?’ she asked the girls about her. Eagerly they explained, ‘It was a great battle with the Turks, in which the Serbs were beaten.’

‘Did you say _beaten_?’ exclaimed Mary, shocked.

‘Terribly,’ said Draga. ‘The King was killed, and all the country conquered.’

‘But why, then----’ began Mary, but stopped, afraid of hurting their feelings; evidently they saw nothing strange in making it the chief holiday of the year. Later, on the way home, she stopped short in the street with the baby in her arms.

‘We don’t seem to do things right in Serbia,’ she said with a troubled face.

‘Why not?’ snapped Peter and Pavlo, who had come round the corner. ‘What’s the matter? Why?’