was waving her arms and shouting.

"Stir your old bones," she screamed out. "It's as fine a loaf as ever
I've seen."

And he hurried along, and found his old wife cutting up a huge loaf of
white bread, mind you, not black--a huge loaf of white bread, nearly
as big as Maroosia.

"You did not do so badly after all," said his old wife as they sat
there with the samovar on the table between them, dipping their bread
in the hot tea.

But that night, as they lay sleeping on the stove, the old woman poked
the old man in the ribs with her bony elbow. He groaned and woke up.

"I've been thinking," says his wife, "your fish might have given us a
trough to keep the bread in while he was about it. There is a lot left
over, and without a trough it will go bad, and not be fit for
anything. And our old trough is broken; besides, it's too small.
First thing in the morning off you go, and ask your fish to give us a
new trough to put the bread in."

Early in the morning she woke the old man again, and he had to get up
and go down to the seashore. He was very much afraid, because he
thought the fish would not take it kindly. But at dawn, just as the
red sun was rising out of the sea, he stood on the shore, and called
out in his windy old voice,--

"Head in air and tail in sea,