him in the face, if he comes close; and if I tell you to strike, hit him on the end of the nose." It was, indeed, a full-grown bear, marching slowly on his great flat feet. He was not more than thirty yards distant, when he saw them, and stopped. Both kept their eyes fixed upon his head, but did not move. The bear gazed steadily at them for what seemed a long time. Finally he gave a sniff and a grunt, tossed up his nose, and slowly walked on, stopping once or twice to turn and look back, before he disappeared from view. Sasha lifted his stick and shook it towards him; he felt that he should never again be much afraid of bears. "Now, boy," said Gregor, "you have learned how to face danger. But come along! It will be dark before we get to the village, and the potatoes are cooked by this time." The mention of the potatoes revived all Sasha's forgotten hunger, and he obeyed in silence. After walking for a mile as rapidly as their loads would permit, they saw the wooden houses of the village, on a low green hill, in the last gleams of sunset. The church, with its three little copper-covered domes, stood on the highest point; next to it the priest's house and garden. Then began the broad street, lined with square log cabins sloping down to a large pond, at the foot of which was a mill. Beyond the water there was a great meadow, then long, rolling fields of stretch of grazing rye and barley, extending to the woods which bounded the view in every direction. The whole region, including the village and nearly all the people in it, belonged to the estate of a Russian baron. Sasha and his grandfather, like all their neighbors, were serfs. Their labor and even their property belonged to the owner of the land. It was nearly dark when old Gregor and Sasha threw down their loads, and entered the house. The supper was already waiting. In one corner of the room a tiny lamp was burning before a picture of the Virgin Mary. Sasha's father, Ivan, had also lighted a long pine splint, and the room looked very cheerful. The boiled potatoes were smoking in a great wooden bowl, beside which stood a dish of salt, another of melted fat, and a loaf of black bread. They had neither plates, knives, nor forks, only some coarse wooden spoons; and all ate out of the bowl, after the salt had been sprinkled and the fat poured over the potatoes. Sasha was about thirteen years old, rather small for his age, and hardly to be called a handsome boy. But there was something very pleasant in his large gray eyes, and his long, thick flaxen hair shone almost like silver when the sun fell upon it. However, he never thought about his looks. The boy was burning with desire to tell the adventure with the bear, but he did not like to speak before his grandfather. Gregor first lighted his pipe, and then related the story as if it were something that happened every day. "Pity I hadn't your gun with me, Ivan," he said at the close; "what with the meat, the fat, and the skin, we should have had thirty roubles." The children were noisy with excitement. Little Peter said: "What for did you let him go, Sasha? I'd have killed him and carried him home!" Then all laughed so heartily that Peter began to cry and was soon packed into a box in the corner, where he slept with his brothers, Waska and Sergius. "Take the gun with you to-morrow, father," said Ivan. "It's too much, with my load of wood," Gregor answered; "the old hunting knife is all I want. Sasha will stand by me with a club; he'll not be afraid the next time." Sasha was about to exclaim, "I wasn't afraid the first time!" but before he spoke he remembered that he did tremble a little- just a very little. By this time it was dark outside. The older people went to bed in their narrow rooms, which were hardly better than closets. Sasha spread a coarse sack of straw on the floor and lay down. He covered himself with his sheepskin coat, and in five minutes was so sound asleep that he might have been dragged out of his bed without being awakened. CHRISTMAS LESSONS I. CHRISTMAS EVERYWHERE 1 Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night! Christmas where children are hopeful and gay, Christmas where old men are patient and gray, For the Christ Child who comes is the Master of all; No palace too great and no cottage too small. II. SONGS OF CHRISTMAS 2 Blow bugles of battle, the marches of peace; East, west, north, and south let the long quarrel cease. Sing the song of great joy that the angels began, Sing of glory to God and of good will to man! 1 By Phillips Brooks. 2 By John G. Whittier. |