Read Online The Firebird and Other Russian Fairy Tales by Arthur Ransome - Free Book Online Page A

singing in the hut. This is what she sang:—
    â€œOld ones, old ones, now I know
Less you love me than a hen,
I shall go away again.
Good-bye, ancient ones, good-bye,
Back I go across the sky;
To my motherkin I go—
Little daughter of the Snow.”
    They ran into the house. There were a little pool of water in front of the stove, and a fur hat, and a little coat, and little red boots were lying in it. And yet it seemed to the old man and the old woman that they saw the little snow girl, with her bright eyes and her long hair, dancing in the room.
    â€œDo not go! do not go!” they begged, and already they could hardly see the little dancing girl.
    But they heard her laughing, and they heard her song:—
    â€œOld ones, old ones, now I know
Less you love me than a hen,
I shall melt away again.
To my motherkin I go—
Little daughter of the Snow.”
    And just then the door blew open from the yard, and a cold wind filled the room, and the little daughter of the Snow was gone.
    The little snow girl leapt into the arms of Frost her father and Snow her mother, and they carried her away over the stars to the far north, and there she plays all through the summer on the frozen seas. In winter she comes back to Russia, and some day, you know, when you are making a snow woman, you may find the little daughter of the Snow standing there instead.

The Golden Fish
    LONG AGO, near the shore of the blue sea, an old man lived with his old woman in a little old hut made of earth and moss and logs. They never had a rouble to spend. A rouble! they never had a kopeck. They just lived there in the little hut, and the old man caught fish out of the sea in his old net, and the old woman cooked the fish; and so they lived, poorly enough in summer and worse in winter. Sometimes they had a few fish to sell, but not often. In the summer evenings they sat outside their hut on a broken old bench, and the old man mended the holes in his ragged old net. There were holes in it a hare could jump through with his ears standing, let alone one of those little fishes that live in the sea. The old woman sat on the bench beside him, and patched his trousers and complained.
    Well, one day the old man went fishing, as he always did. All day long he fished, and caught nothing. And then in the evening, when he was thinking he might as well give up and go home, he threw his net for the last time, and when he came to pull it in he began to think he had caught an island instead of a haul of fish, and a strong and lively island at that—the net was so heavy and pulled so hard against his feeble old arms.
    â€œThis time,” says he, “I have caught a hundred fish at least.”
    Not a bit of it. The net came in as heavy as if it were full of fighting fish, but seemed to be empty.
    But it was not quite empty, for when the last of the net came ashore there was something glittering in it—a golden fish, not very big and not very little, caught in the meshes. And it was this single golden fish which had made the net so heavy.
    The old fisherman took the golden fish in his hands.
    â€œAt least it will be enough for supper,” said he.
    But the golden fish lay still in his hands, and looked at him with wise eyes, and spoke—yes, it spoke, just as if it were you or I.
    â€œOld man,” says the fish, “do not kill me. I beg you throw me back into the blue waters. Some day I may be able to be of use to you.”
    â€œWhat?” says the old fisherman; “and do you talk with a human voice?”
    â€œI do,” says the fish. “And my fish’s heart feels pain like yours. It would be as bitter to me to die as it would be to yourself.”
    â€œAnd is that so?” says the old fisherman. “Well, you shall not die this time.” And he threw the golden fish back into the sea.
    You would have thought the golden fish would have splashed with his tail, and turned head downwards, and swum away into