The Shoemaker's Apron: A Second Book of Czechoslovak Fairy Tales and Folk Tales. Fillmore Parker
a time the greedy Holena left off her scolding to eat one of the apples. It had so delicious a flavor that she declared she had never in all her life tasted anything so good. Her mother said the same. When they had finished both apples they began to wish for more.
"Mother," Holena said, "go get me my fur cloak. I'm going up the mountain myself. No use sending that lazy little slattern again, for she would only eat up all the apples on the way home. I'll find that tree and when I pick the apples I'd like to see anybody stop me!"
The mother begged Holena not to go out in such weather, but Holena was headstrong and would go. She threw her fur cloak over her shoulders and put a shawl on her head and off she went up the mountain side.
All around the snow lay deep with no track of man or beast in any direction. Holena wandered on and on determined to find those wonderful apples. At last she saw a light in the distance and when she reached it she found it was the great fire about which the Twelve Months were seated.
At first she was frightened but, soon growing bold, she elbowed her way through the circle of men and without so much as saying: "By your leave," she put out her hands to the fire. She hadn't even the courtesy to say: "Good-day."
Great January frowned.
"Who are you?" he asked in a deep voice. "And what do you want?"
Holena looked at him rudely.
"You old fool, what business is it of yours who I am or what I want!"
She tossed her head airily and walked off into the forest.
The frown deepened on Great January's brow. Slowly he stood up and waved the staff over his head. The fire died down. Then the sky grew dark; an icy wind blew over the mountain; and the snow began to fall so thickly that it looked as if some one in the sky were emptying a huge feather-bed.
Holena could not see a step before her. She struggled on and on. Now she ran into a tree, now she fell into a snowdrift. In spite of her warm cloak her limbs began to weaken and grow numb. The snow kept on falling, the icy wind kept on blowing.
Did Holena at last begin to feel sorry that she had been so wicked and cruel to Marushka? No, she did not. Instead, the colder she grew, the more bitterly she reviled Marushka in her heart, the more bitterly she reviled even the good God Himself.
Meanwhile at home her mother waited for her and waited. She stood at the window as long as she could, then she opened the door and tried to peer through the storm. She waited and waited, but no Holena came.
"Oh dear, oh dear, what can be keeping her?" she thought to herself. "Does she like those apples so much that she can't leave them, or what is it? I think I'll have to go out myself and find her."
So the stepmother put her fur cloak about her shoulders, threw a shawl over her head, and started out.
She called: "Holena! Holena!" but no one answered.
She struggled on and on up the mountain side. All around the snow lay deep with no track of man or beast in any direction.
"Holena! Holena!"
Still no answer.
The snow fell fast. The icy wind moaned on.
At home Marushka prepared the dinner and looked after the cow. Still neither Holena nor the stepmother returned.
"What can they be doing all this time?" Marushka thought.
She ate her dinner alone and then sat down to work at the distaff.
The spindle filled and daylight faded and still no sign of Holena and her mother.
"Dear God in heaven, what can be keeping them!" Marushka cried anxiously. She peered out the window to see if they were coming.
The storm had spent itself. The wind had died down. The fields gleamed white in the snow and up in the sky the frosty stars were twinkling brightly. But not a living creature was in sight. Marushka knelt down and prayed for her sister and mother.
The next morning she prepared breakfast for them.
"They'll be very cold and hungry," she said to herself.
She waited for them but they didn't come. She cooked dinner for them but still they didn't come. In fact they never came, for they both froze to death on the mountain.
So our good little Marushka inherited the cottage and the garden and the cow. After a time she married a farmer. He made her a good husband and they lived together very happily.
ZLATOVLASKA THE GOLDEN-HAIRED
There was once an old king who was so wise that he was able to understand the speech of all the animals in the world. This is how it happened. An old woman came to him one day bringing him a snake in a basket.
"If you have this snake cooked," she told him, "and eat it as you would a fish, then you will be able to understand the birds of the air, the beasts of the earth, and the fishes of the sea."
The king was delighted. He made the old wise woman a handsome present and at once ordered his cook, a youth named Yirik, to prepare the "fish" for dinner.
"But understand, Yirik," he said severely, "you're to cook this 'fish,' not eat it! You're not to taste one morsel of it! If you do, you forfeit your head!"
Yirik thought this a strange order.
"What kind of a cook am I," he said to himself, "that I'm not to sample my own cooking?"
When he opened the basket and saw the "fish," he was further mystified.
"Um," he murmured, "it looks like a snake to me."
He put it on the fire and, when it was broiled to a turn, he ate a morsel. It had a fine flavor. He was about to take a second bite when suddenly he heard a little voice that buzzed in his ear these words:
"Give us some, too! Give us some, too!"
He looked around to see who was speaking but there was no one in the kitchen. Only some flies were buzzing about.
Just then outside a hissing voice called out:
"Where shall we go? Where shall we go?"
A higher voice answered:
"To the miller's barley field! To the miller's barley field!"
Yirik looked out the window and saw a gander with a flock of geese.
"Oho!" he said to himself, shaking his head. "Now I understand! Now I know what kind of 'fish' this is! Now I know why the poor cook was not to take a bite!"
He slipped another morsel into his mouth, garnished the "fish" carefully on a platter, and carried it to the king.
After dinner the king ordered his horse and told Yirik to come with him for a ride. The king rode on ahead and Yirik followed.
As they cantered across a green meadow, Yirik's horse began to prance and neigh.
"Ho! Ho!" he said. "I feel so light that I could jump over a mountain!"
"So could I," the king's horse said, "but I have to remember the old bag of bones that is perched on my back. If I were to jump he'd tumble off and break his neck."
"And a good thing, too!" said Yirik's horse. "Why not? Then instead of such an old bag of bones you'd get a young man to ride you like Yirik."
Yirik almost burst out laughing as he listened to the horses' talk, but he suppressed his merriment lest the king should know that he had eaten some of the magic snake.
Now of course the king, too, understood what the horses were saying. He glanced apprehensively at Yirik and it seemed to him that Yirik was grinning.
"What are you laughing at, Yirik?"
"Me?" Yirik said. "I'm not laughing. I was just thinking of something funny."
"Um," said the king.
His suspicions against Yirik were aroused. Moreover he was afraid to trust himself to his horse any longer. So he turned back to the palace at once.
There