The Fir Tree [antikvár]

li';.'.u h - i. I It was the day before Christmas. In Yakim's house there was a bustle of activity. The fire crackled in the hearth, the borshch hissed. Olena, Vasilko's mother, was rolling "liolubtsP for supper. Vasilko was sitting on the floor grinding poppy seed for the "kutya." Vasilko was twelve years old and the oldest child in the family. He ground the poppy seed and kept glancing from his two little sisters, who were playing with the cat, to his father, who sat on the bench with bowed head. "Why is father worrying?" he thought. "Is it became he hasn't the money to get mother's boots from the cobbler?" The door creaked open. A stranger came into the house. "Good day to you," he said, turning to Yakim. "Would you consider selling the fir tree growing in your garden, my good man? The masters have sent me out to find a Christmas tree for the children; I've been himting for two days now and haven't been able to find a nice one " Yakim was silent. "What would you give for it?" he asked, finally. "Well, let's not haggle about it What do you want for it?" "How about three 'karbovantsi'," answered Yakim. "Father," Vasilko spoke up in a trembling voice, "that's my tree. You gave it to me, remember, when the teacher praised work." Tow-headed Vasilko's blue eyes ran over with tears. He felt sorry for the green, slender fir, which alone brightened the garden during the winter months. The father glanced at his son. Vasilko fell silent, recognizing the unspoken sadness in the father's look. fir my