The Russian Grandmother's Wonder Tales. Louise Seymour Houghton
to offer thanks she put on her long fur-trimmed chougaii (we should call it a coat), and over that a thick, wadded duchegreika, or hug-me-tight. It was a cold day, and she was not too warmly clothed, but if her fête-day had come in the heat of summer she would have worn these things just the same.
The little boy went to church with his mother, and when they came back he was very hungry. But the feast-table was not yet spread, for the starosta and the older children were still in the fields pulling stubble. The grandmother was not in the fields, for the day was too cold, so the little boy went into her room. She had on her festival clothes in honor of the feast, but she was spinning as usual and humming a little song.
“I’m so hungry, grandmother,” said the little boy.
“Would you spoil the feast by eating now?” asked the grandmother. “The best way is to forget all about being hungry till the feast begins.”
“How can I forget?” asked the little boy. “My mouth cries ‘food!’ ”
“If little grandmother puts a story in your ears will your mouth cease crying?” asked the grandmother.
“Oh, yes, yes!” cried the little boy.
So grandmother told the story of
THE SICK LION
Once upon a time a Lion lay sick in his den. Master Petz, the Bear, called to pay his respects; whereupon the Lion thus spoke:
“Dear Bruin, tell me the honest truth—is it, or is it not very close in this den?”
“Yes, indeed!” replied Petz, “it does smell horribly here.” Upon this the Lion flew into a rage and tore the Bear into a thousand pieces.
Lampe, the Hare, was standing near the door of the den, and observed this mishap. Tremblingly he approached the Lion, who asked him, “Tell me, dear Lampe, is it not close in my den?”
“Oh, dear, no!” replied the Hare; “why should it be close? On the contrary, the air seems to me delightfully fresh.”
“You lie!” retorted the Lion, in high dudgeon; “it is not delightfully fresh; on the contrary, it is disgustingly close,” and he tore the Hare limb from limb.
Isegrim, the Wolf, saw and heard all this, for he was standing near the door of the den. He stepped in, and bowed low before the Lion, who immediately put the same question to him, “See here, Isegrim, tell me truly and honestly, is it close in my den or not?”
“Neither, sire!” replied the obsequious Wolf.
“Oh, you good-for-nothing liar!” roared the Lion, “it must be either one or the other; either it is close or it is not,” and he seized him and tore him to pieces.
Reinecke, the Fox, was looking in from outside, and now he drew near to pay his respects. So the Lion asked him, “See here, Master Reinecke, do you tell me now, is it close in my den or not?”
“Pardon me, august monarch,” replied Reinecke very humbly, “but by all I hold blessed I am not able to tell you, for I have taken such a cold that, upon honor, I cannot smell. But I do hate a lie from the bottom of my heart.”
And the Lion spared Reinecke’s life because he had such a clever wit.
“Will the Báby and the little boy graciously come to supper?” asked the cow-herd woman, opening the door. “The gracious baboushka’s feast is ready.”
So the little boy and his grandmother, whom they call the Báby in Russia, gayly went in to the feast.
CHAPTER III
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
It was Saturday afternoon, and the little boy had been with his mother to the village vapor-bath. After that he had been dressed in his Sunday clothes. His white shirt, which he called his roubachka, hung outside of his best portki, or loose, colored trousers. His legs were wound round with many bands of colored cloth, called onontchi, and on his feet he wore bachmaki, or shoes. When he grew to be a man he would wear very high, large-topped sapoghi, with his trousers tucked into them, like his father, and then he would not need onontchi on his legs. But he was only a little boy yet.
The popod’ya had come to call on his mother. She was the priest’s wife, and was very old, and the little boy did not care for what she and his mother were talking about. So he stole away into his grandmother’s room. The grandmother was kneeling before the ikon, the sacred picture of the Virgin and Child, which hung on the wall with a tiny lamp lighted before it. The little boy would not disturb his grandmother while she was saying her Saturday evening prayer, but he hoped she would not be long. Perhaps she was almost through, for presently she rose from her knees, lifting herself by her stick. The little boy ran to help her, and led her to the stove. She sat down upon it, for her knees were cold from the clay floor, and the little boy climbed up beside her.
“Now the work is all done, little grandma,” he said, putting his hands on either side of her face, “and you can tell me a long story, can’t you?”
“Hum, hum!” said the grandmother, pretending to look cross. “Why should I tell you a long story?”
“Oh, because I have my Sunday clothes on, and must not play in the dirt!” replied the little boy. “Don’t you know a long story, grandma?”
“Would you like to hear about
“WHITELING’S WAR WITH ISEGRIM?”
asked the Báby.
“Yes, indeed, that I should!” cried the little boy.
So the grandmother began:
Once upon a time there was a moujik who had a perfectly white Dog, which he called Whiteling. Now Whiteling had struck up a great friendship with Isegrim, the Wolf, and one day each made a solemn compact never to betray the other in any of their stealings.
Not long after, Isegrim said to Whiteling one day, “I intend to make a call upon your master’s swine to-night; so do you keep no watch, but just lie as still as possible, and don’t wake up the whole family with your barking, as you usually do, for you know that they will move heaven and earth to capture me.”
“Kill all the swine, if you like,” replied Whiteling; “I won’t betray you.”
“A word is enough, brother; I shall be there,” said Isegrim; and so the friends parted.
Punctually at nightfall Isegrim appeared and greeted Whiteling heartily, saying, “I gave you my word, and as you see, here I am.”
“Get to work, then,” replied Whiteling; “you have nothing to fear from me.”
Isegrim crept cautiously to the swine-pen. He had all the work in the world to get in, and once in, he had hardly begun his meal when the swine broke out in fearful squealings and gruntings. Whiteling, at the house-door, no sooner heard the noise than he began to bark and whine with all his might, waking all the family with his noise.
“What makes our Whiteling howl so?” they said.