"I'm not lying. The snipe is. He and the ducks made that story up."

"Well, brothers, something is wrong. Of course, a worm isn't anything, but to steal it, is not nice. And he who steals must lie. Am I not right?"

"Right! You are right!" shouted all in chorus. "All the same, you have to be the judge between Master Stickelback and Master Sparrow."

"Which of those two is right?" asked Yasha. "Both made a noise. Both fought and stirred up everybody else. Who is right? Oh, the two of you, Master Stickelback and Master Sparrow, the two of you are rascals. I will punish both of you as an example. Now, both of you make up quickly."

"That's right," shouted the crowd in chorus. "Let them make up."

"As for the snipe who worked to get the worm, I will feed him with my crust," decided the Chimney-Sweep. "Then everybody will be satisfied."

"Splendid!" all shouted their approval.

The Chimney-Sweep made a move to offer his crust to the snipe, but the crust had disappeared. While Yasha was talking, Master Sparrow grabbed the crust and flew away with it.

"The rascal! The scamp!" shouted the birds and the fishes indignantly, starting in pursuit of the thief.

The crust was heavy and Master Sparrow could not fly far with it. He was caught just beyond the river. Birds, large and small, threw themselves upon the thief. It was a real battle. They were all tearing the bread to bits and the crumbs fell into the river. These the fishes grabbed. Then followed a battle between birds and fish. The crust was broken into tiny crumbs. The crumbs were eaten up. When it was all over, everybody grew thoughtful. They felt ashamed. While chasing the thief to recover the crust, they had grabbed it up themselves.

The jolly Chimney-Sweep, Yasha, sat on the bank, watching and laughing.

The whole affair had turned out to be so funny. They were all gone.

There remained only the Sandy Snipe.

"Why don't you fly along with the others?" asked the Chimney-Sweep.

"I would, Uncle, only I am too small. The big birds might peck me to death."

"Well, maybe you are right, little Snipe. Both of us are left without our dinner. Evidently, we haven't worked hard enough for it."

Then came Verotchka to the river bank and asked the jolly Chimney-Sweep what had happened. How she laughed when she heard the story!

"How foolish they all are, the fish and the birds," said Verotchka. "I could divide everything right, and no one would quarrel. Not long ago I divided four apples. Father brought four apples and said, 'Divide these between you and Lisa and me evenly.' I divided them into three parts. I gave one apple to father, one apple to Lisa, and I took two apples for myself."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE STORY OF THE LAST FLY

I

Summer-time is a merry time for flies. It is hard to tell just how it all happened. There were so many flies; thousands of them, gaily flying and buzzing.

When Little Fly was born, she straightened out her wings and immediately felt happy,--so happy that one really cannot tell it in words. It was all so interesting. The doors and windows leading to the porch were thrown wide open in the morning, and Little Fly flitted in and out as she pleased.

"How kind human beings are!" exclaimed Little Fly, astonished, flying in and out of the windows. "The windows were made for us, and they are open for us. It is so nice to be alive and feeling so happy."

She flew in and out of the garden many times. Sitting on a blade of gra.s.s, she admired the blooming lilacs, the delicate leaves of the budding poplars, and the different flowers in their beds. The gardener, still unknown to her, had taken care of everything. What a kind gardener! Little Fly was not born yet and he had already prepared everything she might need. It was all the more amazing since he himself was not only unable to fly, but he even walked about with great difficulty, trembling all over at times, and muttering to himself.

"I wonder where these nasty flies come from?" grumbled the kind gardener.

The poor dear probably said this from sheer envy because all he could do was to dig beds, set out and water flowers. He couldn't fly. Little Fly liked to buzz around the gardener's red nose, which annoyed him very much.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

People were usually very kind, providing all kinds of pleasures for flies. For instance, when Verotchka had her bread and milk in the morning, she always asked Aunt Olga for a piece of sugar. This she did just to give Little Fly a chance to have a bit of sugar, a few crumbs of bread, and a few drops of milk.

"Now tell me, is there anything more delicious than this treat after working busily all morning?" said Little Fly.

Cook Pascha was even kinder than Verotchka. Every morning she would go to market and bring such wonderful things, especially for the flies--meat, fish, cream and b.u.t.ter. Pascha was the kindest woman in the whole house. Though, like the gardener, she could not fly, she knew perfectly well every need of a fly. She was the kindest woman in all the world.

And Aunt Olga--oh, that wonderful woman!--seemed to live only for the flies. With her own hands she would open all the windows every morning, so that the flies might come and go at will. When it rained, or it was cold, she closed the windows to keep their little wings dry and prevent them from catching cold. Then Aunt Olga noticed that flies liked sugar and berries. So every day she cooked berries and sugar. The flies knew at once why she did this, and to show their grat.i.tude, they crawled right into the pans of jam.

Verotchka was also very fond of jam, but Aunt Olga would only give her one or two teaspoonfuls, because she did not wish to deprive the flies of their share. As the flies could not eat all the jam at once, Aunt Olga put away the jam in jars (to keep it away from mice who were not ent.i.tled to jam) ready to serve to the flies each day at tea time.

"Oh, how kind and good everybody is!" exclaimed Little Fly, flitting in and out of the window. "It is even good that people cannot fly, for they would turn into big, greedy flies, grabbing up everything. It's fine to live in this world!"

"But people aren't at all as kind as you think," remarked an old fly who liked to grumble occasionally. "It only seems so to you. Have you ever noticed the man they call Papa?"

"Oh, yes. He is a very strange gentleman. You are perfectly right, good old fly. Why does he smoke that pipe? He knows very well I do not like tobacco smoke. It seems to me sometimes that he does it just to spite me. And he doesn't like to do anything for flies. You know, once I tasted that ink with which he is forever writing, and I almost died. It was awful. I once saw with my own eyes two pretty, inexperienced young flies drown in his ink. It was a dreadful sight to see how he pulled them out with his pen, put them on his paper, making a splendid blot.

Just think of it! Then he blames us and not himself. Where is justice?"

"I think this Papa has no sense of justice, although he has one good quality," answered the old, experienced fly. "He drinks beer after dinner. That isn't at all a bad habit. To tell the truth, I like a taste of beer myself, though it does make me dizzy."

"I also like beer," confessed Little Fly, blushing slightly. "I become quite gay after having some, although my head aches the next day.

Perhaps Papa does not do anything for flies because he does not care for jam and puts all of his sugar into his tea. One really cannot expect much of a man who does not eat jam. There is nothing left for him but his pipe."

The flies knew people very well, although they interpreted them in their own fashion.

II

The summer was hot. Each day brought more and more flies. They fell into the milk, crawled into the soup and into the ink-well, they buzzed and they whirled and annoyed everyone. Our Little Fly grew up into a big fly. On several occasions she almost perished. The first time her legs stuck in jam and she was just able to free herself. The second time she flew sleepily against a burning lamp and almost scorched her wings. The third time she was almost crushed by a closing window. On the whole, she had many adventures.

"There is no living with these flies about," complained Cook. "They act like mad--crawling into everything. They must be done away with."

Even our Fly decided that there were altogether too many flies, especially in the kitchen. At night the ceiling was black with them.

They seemed like a moving net. When the provisions were brought, the flies threw themselves upon them--a live ma.s.s, pushing, jostling, quarrelling. The best morsels fell to the lot of the bold and the strong. The rest had the remains.

Pascha, the cook, was right. There were too many flies. Then something horrible happened. One morning, Pascha brought along with the provisions a package of very tasty papers--that is, she made them tasty, when she spread them out on plates, by moistening them with warm water and sprinkling sugar over them.

"There is a fine treat for the flies," said Pascha, putting the plates where they could be seen. Without Pascha's saying anything, the flies knew at once that this was a special treat for them. Buzzing gaily, they threw themselves upon the new dainty. Our Fly tried to get into a plate, but she was pushed rudely aside.

"No pushing, please," said she, offended, "I'm not one of those greedy ones, you know. You are quite rude."

Then something quite terrible happened. Thousands of flies died. The greediest were the first to succ.u.mb. They crawled about as if drunk and then fell to the ground, dead. In the morning, Pascha swept up a large plate full of dead flies. Only the most sensible ones remained alive.

Among these was our Fly.