ROBIN REDBREAST

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 774, 21 September 1929, Page 37

ROBIN REDBREAST

A RUSSIAN STORY Many years ago, Russia was a wild and dangerous country, in which people , travelled in large parties, armed with pistols; and the horses which drew the j sledges wore bells round their necks to keep away the wolves. But as soon jas it grew dark these savage beasts j would attack any number of people ; j and the only thing that frightened J them away was a big fire. Petrograd | and Moscow had not been built; the | two most Important cities were Novgorod and Kier, and between them were great, dark forests, lonely and trackless and full of wolves. One New Year’s Eve, while in Novgorod, the people were drinking vodka round log fires and listenih o the gipsy bands, in the forest the leader of a pack of wolves lifted his head and howled—the long-drawn cry of the beast that scents his prey. Through the falling snow came an old man and a boy; travelling from Kier to Novgorod. The boy sat on a bundle on a sledge drawn by a piece of rope, which was tied round the old man’s waist because his hands were too numb to hold if. The man’s head was bent down to protect his eyes from the blinding snow, and he stumbled at nearly every step. He seemed not to have heard the dreadful cry—he was too tired to hear anything but the crunching of the snow beneath his feet, and too weak to think of anything but the hard task of dragging one foot after another out of the hole behind and planting it in the white patch in front, without losing his balance or letting his knees slip forward. Suddenly a hard shock seemed to jar every bone in his body, and he fell on to his hands and knees. lie had trodden on a stone. A great weariness came over him, and he closed his eyes. The child jumped off his seat and ran to him. “Grandpa,” ho said, “you must get up. I will pull you.’’ Ivan Berennikov rolled over on to his back and wiped the snow out of Ills eyes. The light was beginning to fade. “You see,” said the boy, “the night will soon be here, and then the wolves will eat us. It cannot be far now to Novgorod.” Ivan rolled over again on to his face, plunged his arms into the snow, and, with a tremendous effort, raised himself on to his knees; but they gave way his head- swam, and he was pitched forward again. “It is no use, Marko, I can go no farther. We must stay here. You can make a fire; the wood is underneath those blankets.” Marko went to the sledge, carefully untied the bundle on which he had been sitting, and pulled out what looked like a sort of collapsible table. It was a large square piece of asbestos, supported by four iron pegs. He stuck this into the ground, arranged some ot the sticks underneath it, and very soon had a cheerful little fire burning. Rolling up the smaller blanket, he slipped it under his grand-father's head, the other one he spread over the old man’s body, tucking it in at the sides as well as he could. He then laid a ground sheet in front of the fire and flung himself down with a sigh of relief. Every i few minutes he would take a stick from the bag on the sledge and add It to the blaze. Marko was surprised when the fire , began hissing, as the asbestos kept ; off the snow, and the sticks in the bag were stone dry. He looked at it more I closely, and saw some small twigs in the blaze, and, gazing upwards to see where they could have dropped from, noticed ' a small, greyish-brown bird which flew down from a neighbouring pine tree, carrying a twig in its beak. The bird tapped the twig on the asbestos to shake off tile snow, and carefully placed it on the fire. Then it flew back to the tree and returned with another twig, and then fetched another, and another, until the boy found there was no need to put any more sticks on the fire. The howls of the wolves were going farther and farther away, the snow* was falling softly, and it was warm by the fire. The boy lay on his back and watched the stars. Presently he fell asleep. The dawn was breaking when Ivan Berennikov, the old man, awoke, feeling wanned and refreshed. The snow had stopped falling, and the fire was still burning and casting a pink glow on to the trunks of the pines and firs But the boy, Marko, wag asleep on the . ground sheet. Ivan called: “Marko.” and he sat up and rubbed his eyes “Marko, you are a good boy,” said Ivan. “I should have watched the fire, but I fell asleep, and you have saved us.” “I have been asleep, too. It was the bird,” said Marko, and he pointed to it. “A robin,” said Ivan. “But he. is burnt,” cried the boy. “Book at his breast!” Ivan looked. The little robin had worked so hard that all his front feathers had been burnt away, and his breast was red and raw. He gave o little chirp and flew to the pine tree, returning with another twig, which he put neatly on the fire. Then he fluttered down to the feet of the boy. chirped again, very faintly* and died. Marko began to cry, but the old mansaid: “Do not pity the robin. lie has done a brave thing, and he will be honoured | among birds. His breast will be his glory, for where he has been burnt only \ red feathers will grow, and people will j call him *Robin Redbreast.’ ”