The Russian Grandmother's Wonder Tales

by Louise Seymour Houghton; Friedrich S. Krauss

The happy day had come. The little boy was all ready for the journey, dressed in a colored shirt hanging over his full trousers—the white shirt must be kept clean for Sunday, you know—his kaftan well belted down and with a small fur collar at the neck, and on his head a high kolpak, or fur hat, just like his father’s. His legs were covered by onontchi, well wrapped around and cross-gartered with colored strings, and on his feet he had fur-lined shoes, for third-class cars are very cold. The little boy’s mother had on all her warm clothes, with a long fur overcoat, just like that the father wore, over all her other wraps; and the father, besides his great fur overcoat, had on his fur kolpak and high fur-lined boots, into the wide tops of which his full trousers were tucked. He had a great basket in his hand, containing food for the journey and a pair of fowls and some other things for the mother’s-mother whom they were going to visit. In his inside pocket the father had the papers of the mir which he must carry to the zemstvo. So they were all ready.

All the men and children of the village accompanied them to the station, which was in the midst of a wide plain a quarter of a league beyond the last house. There was a good while to wait; the train was not due for half an hour, but that did not matter. The grown folk had a deal of talking to do—all the privileges that they hoped the starosta would secure from the zemstvo for the commune. As for the children! Well, this was the chance of their lives, for their station had a playground, with swings, wooden horses, and giant’s strides, and it was not often they had such privileges, especially the uniformed school-children. For when once a Russian child puts on the school uniform, play is pretty nearly over for him for the rest of his life. So they made the most of their opportunity. It was not a cold day for January, and if it had been they would not have minded.

When the train came lumbering in, as it did after a while, half a dozen more children jumped down from the second and third class cars and ran to the playground. The other children made way for them, for station playgrounds are for travelling children, and they had the first right. Yet there was room for them all. But the little boy was impatient to be on his travels, so he ran to his mother, and was very glad when the men of the commune had said their last words to their representative, and the starosta led his wife and little boy to a good place in a compartment where there was room for the samovar. Presently the first warning was given. The children came running from the playground; there was a chorus of good-bys. The second warning sounded, and the train jolted away. The little boy was a travelling child at last!

At every stop where there was a playground—there was not one at every station—he would run out and have a swing, his mother going with him, for he was a little boy to be among strangers. After a while he was hungry, and then his mother unpacked her basket and set the samovar a-going, and gave a lump of bread and a big piece of sausage to each, with unlimited cups of scalding tea that made them nice and warm. After that the little boy leaned his head against his mother, and then—most wonderful!—they were already at the capital, and the stars were shining. Where had the afternoon gone?

He had not time to ask, for his father had swung him upon his shoulder and was carrying him through the crowd, and there, outside the wicket, was a little old woman, with such a nice face, who fell upon his mother’s neck and kissed her again and again.

“That is your other grandmother,” said his father. “Your mother has not seen her since she was married, and that is many years ago.”

And then the other grandmother caught the little boy from his father’s arms and kissed him and cried over him, till the little boy did not know whether he ought to cry or not.

He became very well acquainted with the other grandmother the next day. She did not seem like his own dear little grandmother at home, but she was very nice. He called her mother’s-mother, because she was not his real grandmother, he thought; and the other grandmother laughed and said that would do very well.

In the afternoon, when his father had gone back to the zemstvo, and his mother was clearing up after dinner, which she said her mother was not to do while she was there, the little boy went and stood by his other grandmother’s chair.

“Mother’s-mother,” he said, “little grandmamma told me that you knew some nice stories.”