I
It was towards the close of a September day. Old Gregor and his grandson Sasha were returning home through the forest with their bundles of wood, the old man stooping low under the weight of the heavier sticks he carried, while the boy dragged his great bunch of twigs and splints by a rope drawn over his shoulder. Where the trees grew thick, the air was already quite gloomy, but in the open spaces they could see the sky and tell how near it was to sunset.
Both were silent, for they were tired, and it is not easy to talk and carry a heavy load at the same time. But presently something gray appeared through the trees, at the foot of a low hill; it was the rock where they always rested on the way home. Old Gregor laid down his bundle there, and wiped his face on the sleeve of his brown jacket, but Sasha sprang upon the rock and began to balance himself upon one foot, as was his habit whenever he tried to think about anything.
“Grandfather,” he said, at last, “why should all the forest belong to the Baron, and none of it to you?”
Gregor looked at him sharply for a moment before he answered.
“It was his father’s and his grandfather’s; it has been the property of the family for many a hundred years, and we have never had any.”
“I know that,” said Sasha. “But why did it come so first?”
Gregor shook his head. “You might as well ask how the world was made.” Then, seeing that the boy looked troubled, he added in a kinder tone, “What put such a thought in your head?”
“Why, the forest itself!” Sasha cried. “The Baron lets us have the top branches and little twigs, but he always takes the logs and sells them for money. I know all the trees, and he doesn’t; I can find my way in the woods anywhere, and there’s many a tree that would say to me, if it could talk, ‘I’d rather belong to you, Sasha, because I know you.’”