“THE FOX AND THE DOVE”
Once upon a time there was a Dove which built her nest in a high tree. Every year, about the time when her young ones were beginning to get feathers, Reinecke would come along and say to the Dove:
“Give me your young ones to eat; throw them down to me of your own accord, or I will gobble you up as well as them!”
The Dove, frightened at the threat, would throw down the young birds. Thus it had happened year after year.
Now one day, as the Dove sat most melancholy upon her nest, a Great Bird flew up and asked why she was so sad and down-cast. And the Dove answered that it was because Reinecke would soon come and eat up her young ones.
Upon this the Great Bird replied, “Oh, you goose! Why do you throw them down to him? Just bid your good friend to please give himself the trouble to come after them. Then you’ll soon see him sneak away with his tail between his legs, for Reinecke cannot climb a tree.”
So when the time came round and Reinecke again presented himself, the Dove said to him, “If you want meat for dinner, just be so kind as to come up and help yourself.”
When the Fox saw that he must go away empty he asked the Dove who had counselled her to speak thus, and she answered:
“That Great Bird that has a nest yonder near the stream.”
Reinecke at once betook himself to the stream and remonstrated with that Great Bird for building his nest in so exposed a place, asking what he did in case of a high wind.
The Great Bird answered, “When the wind blows from the right I turn to the left; when it blows from the left I turn to the right.”
“But what do you do when it blows from all sides?” asked the Fox.
“Then I stick my head under my wing,” said the Great Bird, showing how he did it. But quick as a wink, when the Great Bird stuck his head under his wing, the Master sprang upon him and seized him, saying:
“You know how to give counsel to others, but not to advise yourself!”
So he ate him up.
The little boy pondered this story for a while. At last he said, “Grandmother, why did that Great Bird say that Reinecke could not climb a tree? He has climbed a tree a great many times.”
“This one was not a story of this mir,” replied the grandmother. “It is a story from another mir, where my mother’s mother was born. The foxes there are different.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE ELECTION MEETING
There were many men gathered in the little boy’s house, for the time of the zemstvo was drawing near, and the men of the village must choose one of their number to go away to the large city which was the capital of the district to help make laws for the district. That is what the zemstvo is for. The noblemen go, of course, and every village chooses one villager to go.
They met in the little boy’s house to choose their delegate, partly because the little boy’s father was starosta, and partly because his house was the largest. Though they were many, there was room for them all on the bench of masonry that ran around the four walls of the room, and was covered in the most honorable places with bright calico. It was a very cold day, and the bench was as far as possible from the stove, but they were not cold, for the chinks between the upright boards which made the walls of the starosta’s house were well stopped with tow, and, besides, the men all had on their warm kaftans, or over-blouses, and their fur-lined boots.
There was a great deal of talking, and the little boy’s mother and sisters were very busy with the samovar, making tea and handing it round. They had to be very careful to keep the water in the samovar boiling madly, for tea is not good unless it scalds your mouth. At least so they think in the little boy’s village.
The little boy had been told that he must keep very still; but it is as hard to keep a little Russian boy still as a little American boy, for both are very fond of play. The little boy did not find it amusing, and presently he crept very quietly toward the door.
“Where are you going?” asked his mother.
“To see grandmamma,” answered the little boy.
“Be careful not to disturb her; she is busy,” said the mother.
The little boy ran quickly out of the room.
The grandmother was indeed busy. She had her short skirt turned back, a short-handled broom of twigs in her hand, a great earthen jar of water beside her, and she was hard at work scrubbing the floor.
“Wipe your feet very clean,” she said, “and don’t bring dirt upon my nice floor.”
The little boy wiped his feet very clean, and tiptoed across to the stove. It was really quite amusing to watch his grandmother scrub, especially when the water made little pools in the hollows, worn by many years of walking over the clay floor, and she had to flirt it out with little whisks of the broom. He watched her very quietly until she had shaken out her broom and emptied the jar into a great tub in the court. Then she came back and sank heavily into her chair, saying:
“Ouf! little grandmother is tired!”
“Too tired to spin, little grandma!” exclaimed the little boy eagerly.
The grandmother smiled. “But not too tired for a story—is that what the little boy means?”
“Oh, you’re not, you’re not!” cried the little boy gleefully.
“Listen then, and I will tell you about