standing under the pine trees. There was no smoke coming from the
chimney, but there was such a chattering you would have thought that
all the Vanyas and Maroosias in Holy Russia were talking to each other
inside.

He had no sooner come in sight of the hut than the dozens and dozens
of little queer children came pouring out of the door to meet him. And
every single one of them had a turnip, and showed it to the old man,
and laughed and laughed as if it were the best joke in the world.

"I knew it was you," said the old man.

"Of course it was us," cried the children. "_We_ stole the turnips."

"But how did you get to the top of the dovecot when the door into the
house was bolted and fast?"

The children laughed and laughed and did not answer a word.

"Laugh you may," says the old man; "but it is I who get the scolding
when the turnips fly away in the night."

"Never mind! never mind!" cried the children. "We'll pay for the
turnips."

"All very well," says the old man; "but that tablecloth of yours--it
was fine yesterday, but this morning it would not give me even a glass
of tea and a hunk of black bread."

At that the faces of the little queer children were troubled and