The Cedar-crows settled down again to their ordinary life, and there is no saying how long they would have gone on in the same way if a runaway tramp had not happened to make a bonfire in the taïgá[11]. It was a long time since he had enjoyed a hot drink, and he was thirsty. He made some tea, drank it, and was just going to start on again, when he heard bells, then a rustling sound and footsteps. The poor fellow was terrified: 'The Ispravnik!'[12] he thought. 'I shall be caught!' He rushed into the thicket, not stopping even to scatter the burning brands or stamp out the embers. In the meantime a light wind rose, the embers glowed, the dry pine-needles caught fire, and soon the flames were creeping on from one fallen trunk to another—farther and farther, wider and wider, licking the trees, curling round whole thickets—and the taïgá was on fire. That is a common thing in Siberia.
For some time the Cedar-crows had noticed that the air was of a milky colour. For some time the sun had been dull-red by day, and by night they could see a far-off crimson glare in the sky. Now the smell of burning was in the air, and still the Cedar-crows could not believe that their estate was in danger of fire. It disturbed them far more that innumerable birds began flying past their glade to the Vagaï; the beasts, too, hurrying to the river, ran straight by the cedar.... Soon it grew difficult to breathe, yet still the Cedar-crows could not bear to part from their estate; they still dreaded lest some other birds or beasts might take possession of their glade. At last, though, they could bear it no longer; they were forced to go. But when, after all, they made up their minds to leave the cedar, it was too late. The fire attacked their glade from all sides at once, and when they attempted to fly upwards they dropped, stifled with smoke, on to the ground. The cool, green grass refreshed them, and, in desperation, they struggled again to reach the river. But all around them rose terrible fiery pillars, and the unhappy birds, scorched and half dead, sank again to the ground, and rose no more.
Presently rain began to pour in torrents, and put out the fire within a few yards of the glade. That glade was now a dismal scene of ruin: the tall grass was burnt brown, the mighty cedar was a charred and naked corpse. All around stood the trees—aspens, birches, limes, and bird-cherries—burnt to skeletons, or with dead and shrivelled leaves hanging from them here and there. Mournfully they raised their barren branches towards the heavens, as though praying for mercy; and thus, with lifted hands, they perished.
But beyond that bare skeleton thicket stood in the distance the fresh and untouched forest. The female Cedar-crow, lying helpless on the ground, gazed upon it despairingly. Beside her lay her fledgling—the only one left alive. He was feebly fluttering his scorched wings and uttering piteous cries.
'Oh, if only some of the birds would come to us!' thought the unhappy mother; 'surely they would have pity on my child, and would carry him down to the waterside and feed him. He would recover there; he would not die of hunger and thirst!...'
But no one came near the glade. All the birds remembered the general agreement: not to disturb the Cedar-crows in their seclusion, and not to approach within twenty fathoms of their estate. And not one of the birds knew what had happened to the Cedar-crow family.
When the bright sun rose next morning no one of that family saw it—they were all dead....
Meanwhile the other birds, leaving the fire-ravaged places for other parts of the forest that were still fresh and green, rejoiced as formerly in the fair world, sharing everything together; and far along the clear Vagaï the air was filled with their joyous and friendly twittering.