The little boy was playing in the court with the moujik’s dog that helped to guard the sheep. It was a clear, cold day, but the little boy was not cold, for he had on his warm quilted kaftan, or blouse, his cap, which he called his chapka, on his head, and on his feet were sandals made of the tough bark of the linden-tree. He was not going to risk frozen toes another time!
The sheep-dog was old and rather cross, but he was always kind to the little boy. But when the house-cat followed the cow-herd woman out of the house, where she had gone to carry some milk, the dog bristled up and growled. The cat spat at him, and this was too much. He sprang at her, but kitty was too quick for him. She flew across the court and scrambled nimbly up to the shed roof by one of the supporting poles. The dog was too old and heavy to follow her, and he sat on his haunches in the court below, bristling and snarling, the cat spitting back at him and evidently enjoying the fun. The cow-herd woman and a moujik who was at work in the court were laughing heartily; the little boy’s brother, who was cutting wood in the shed, came out to see what it was all about. The little boy was highly excited, and he ran to call his grandmother to come and see.
But by the time the grandmother had risen slowly from her chair—for her rheumatism was bad that day—and had gone to the door, leaning on her stick, the fun was all over. The cat had gone around to another side of the shed, and lay basking in the sun, out of the dog’s sight; the moujik, the cow-herd woman, and the little boy’s brother had gone back to their work. Only the dog remained, looking up at the deserted roof and growling at nothing.
The little boy went with his grandmother into the house.
“Grandmamma,” he asked, “why does the dog always quarrel with the cat?”
“My great-grandmother told me why,” replied the grandmother. “I will tell you that story now, if you like.”
“Oh, do, do!” cried the little boy.
“It is the story,” said the grandmother, “of