again undecided; behind the hospital there were white crosses.

"Ma-a-mka!" he cried, and dashed back.

Running by the dark sinister buildings, he saw one lighted window.

The bright red patch looked dreadful in the darkness, but Pashka,
frantic with terror, not knowing where to run, turned towards it.
Beside the window was a porch with steps, and a front door with a
white board on it; Pashka ran up the steps, looked in at the window,
and was at once possessed by intense overwhelming joy. Through the
window he saw the merry affable doctor sitting at the table reading
a book. Laughing with happiness, Pashka stretched out his hands to
the person he knew and tried to call out, but some unseen force
choked him and struck at his legs; he staggered and fell down on
the steps unconscious.

When he came to himself it was daylight, and a voice he knew very
well, that had promised him a fair, finches, and a fox, was saying
beside him:

"Well, you are an idiot, Pashka! Aren't you an idiot? You ought to
be beaten, but there's no one to do it."


GRISHA

GRISHA, a chubby little boy, born two years and eight months ago,
is walking on the boulevard with his nurse. He is wearing a long,
wadded pelisse, a scarf, a big cap with a fluffy pom-pom, and warm