THE GOLDEN FISH.


"This," said old Peter, "is a story against wanting more than enough."

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.

"This time," says he, "I have caught a hundred fish at least."