HE banks of the Vagaï are beautiful—very beautiful[9]—in some places at least. Steep, almost overhanging, and high as the walls of a fortress bastion, they rise frowning above the river sternly; yet they are fair with the rich verdure of the forest that crowns their heights. This forest is of many kinds. The century-old fir-trees, with trunks that three men could not gird with outstretched arms, rise in straight, dark-red columns, so high that to look up at even the lowest branches you must throw your head back till your hat falls off; beside them the gray-barked aspens quiver in every leaf, as if frightened at the twisted, snaky black trunks of the bird-cherry—the tree that smells so sweet in early spring when the white blossoms cover it like a sheet of snow. The gentle rowan is not noticeable for its height; its feathery leaves are the only thing that could attract your attention. But wait till autumn comes; then it is hung all over with clusters of scarlet berries, and brightens up the forest. The mighty cedar, with its long, grand sweeps of feathery needles, towers up higher even than its comrade the fir; here and there beneath the trees is scattered about an undergrowth of young pines, almost branchless, like bristles or long sticks standing up out of the earth. But the commonest trees in this forest are certainly silver birches. The trunks of these birches stand out sometimes straight and slender, with delicate heads of foliage, looking like cadets in their white shirts; sometimes gnarled, branchy, knotted, with the air of a burly peasant, rugged with labour.

Underneath, at the base of all these tree-trunks, so different in thickness, height, and colour, all the ground is covered with masses of bright flowers, and a carpet of grass that buries you waist-deep when you walk. And the longer you look upon this forest scene the more varied, the more exquisite, it appears to you. There are so many beautiful shades of green—pale and delicate on the birch-trees, dark on the cedars, almost black on the pikhta. Here the trees cluster together on the river-bank, pressing one against the other, forming an impassable barrier,—there they draw back, as if wearied of following the course of the river, and leave a wide, open space, where you can see the edge of the nearest bank, and the barren precipice of the opposite one, also crowned with glorious green forest; and if you advance to the edge you can see, far below, the torrent itself, swift and mighty.

Ah yes, the Vagaï is beautiful! And not only is it beautiful, but it is a merry life there—in any case it is a merry life for the birds who live there. So many joys are theirs! The woodpeckers can find in the bark of the trees (especially the old stumps of fallen trees) fat caterpillars and beetles; for the snipe and woodcocks there are endless strawberries, bilberries, cranberries, thick clumps of wild oats and other edible grasses. The great cones, with their juicy nuts, cluster on the branches of the pines and giant cedars, like candles on a Christmas-tree, then late in autumn they fall to the ground. The clear, fresh water of the Vagaï seems to call you to bathe and drink. And then the bright sunshine, the transparent, fragrant air, the green carpet of the forest, the joyous company of comrades, with whom one can sing, chirp, hop, dart about, and fly like an arrow on light wings. What more can heart desire? Living such a life, should one not rejoice in this bright world, fling away all envy and malice, and share together with one's fellow-creatures all the delights which our common mother, Nature, gives?

So thought all the birds of the forest tract we are speaking of, and so they lived. Early, very early, in the morning, when the first scarlet flush shone in the sky to herald the golden sunbeams, one little bird would wake up and open its eyes, and there beside it another would have begun fluttering its wings, drinking the bright dewdrops from the leaves, pecking seeds from the grasses. Then the first bird would look at its friend, thinking, 'There's plenty for all;' and it, too, would begin chirruping, delighted to have a companion with whom to share both its labour and its rest. And both together would dart off and fly to the Vagaï to bathe. So the little birds lived happily, neither quarrelling nor disagreeing, helping one another in their work and dangers, and sharing together all that the bright world gave them.

But this way of living and thinking did not suit a certain broad-beaked, ponderous cedar-crow[10], who had taken up her abode in a huge cedar.

This cedar stood apart in a glade, and the Cedar-crow liked it just on account of its separate position.

'I will settle here; this shall be my estate. I don't want any one else's property, and no one shall touch mine! It's comfortable and private and nice!' The clumsy bird flew all round the cedar, and, being satisfied with it, settled there.

The Cedar-crow stopped there a day, two days ... the other birds darted past, chirping, flying races, playing with one another, rejoicing together in the good gifts of their mother-earth, the bright sun, and the Vagaï, and the delights of companionship; but the thick-billed Cedar-crow dared not leave her tree; there she sat watching that no other bird should touch her private nuts. When a woodcock did but pass, she flew to him in anxiety, crying out: 'Go away!—go away! There's nothing here for you; go back where you came from! I don't touch your things; you let mine alone.'

'But do you suppose the rest of the forest is only ours?' said the Woodcock. 'You can have them too; of course any one may take as much as they want. There's enough for every one.'

'Yes, I dare say. You can do as you like. But I feel safer when I have something of my own.'

'Why, you foolish one!' exclaimed a thrush, which had flown up to them, 'we always live in whole companies—thousands together—and never cut up things into "mine" and "thine"; and yet no harm happens to us.'

'Yes; so long as there is plenty for all, but afterwards there's no saying what will happen,' thought the Cedar-crow, though she did not say so aloud. 'If the land is divided between all of us, how much will each one have? Now I've got the whole of this huge cedar to myself; it will last my time, and I can leave it to my children and grandchildren; there will be more for them than for your fledglings....'

'You're just gone silly with greediness,' said the other birds, and flew away, chirruping and darting after one another in the air. But the Cedar-crow, the forest landowner, seeing that she was alone, pulled a cone from her cedar, and began picking out the nuts. She ate as much as she could, and then returned to the work of guarding her estate. She sat and looked about her, and occasionally flew round the tree, constantly afraid that some one was touching her property.

The time for nest-building came. All the birds paired and got to work: one carried a feather, another a straw; each one wove in its contribution properly; then they would hop about, chirp to one another, and fly off together to fetch more material.

The Cedar-crow became more anxious than ever. 'There!' she thought; 'they will lay eggs and hatch new fledglings, and they, too, will all want to eat and drink; they will simply ravage my cedar. I shall have nothing left!'

She even left off going down to the Vagaï to drink. Yet she was tormented with thirst: her tongue hung out; her eyes distended; she could hardly breathe; and still she dared not leave her tree. She endured it till nightfall. At night all the birds settled down to rest sweetly after their day's work; only here and there an owl with great round eyes would flit past. But the Cedar-crow could not go to sleep; she had to fly to the river and drink; and this misery was not only once—at dawn to-morrow it would begin again!

At last the envious bird could bear it no longer. Clearly she could not manage alone. She began thinking how to get out of the difficulty. It occurred to her that it might be better to take another cedar-crow into partnership with her, and build a nest; certainly it would be another mouth to feed, but then the two of them together could guard their property, and not lose a single cone. And even if they had fledglings, it would still be better than now: in the first place, she would feel safer; in the second place, with so many to keep watch, not a single nut would be lost, let alone a cone. And the cedar was very big; it would be enough for five, even ten families.

The Cedar-crow polished her beak, pecked off a cone, glancing about her as she did so, flew round the cedar, and settled herself to look out for a mate. There, just opposite her, on a neighbouring fir-tree, sat another cedar-crow, large and heavy, with a great strong beak. It sat looking at the cedar; evidently it wanted some nuts.

The forest landowner flew across to it, and began to explain: 'This is my estate; no one has a right to touch it; but, if you like, I will take you into companionship, if you will help me to guard our cedar from intruders.' The male looked at the cedar-tree, and saw that it was a fine one. 'You won't get such a cedar every day.'

'All right,' said he; 'if one lets every one in to share in God's blessings one will just starve. I've seen enough of these fools that do nothing and lay by nothing: just fly in coveys, peck everything bare, and there's not a thing left. I myself was just looking for a good cedar, to take possession of it, and let no one come near.'

They paired, and set to work to build their nest; one would bring the materials, or go down to drink, while the other guarded the estate.

Well, some time passed, and behold their little fledglings peeped out of the nest. The old Cedar-crows were more anxious than ever about their property; formerly they had only watched over the cones, now they let no one so much as fly past the cedar-tree.

But how were they to prevent the birds from ever flying past, when forests and meadows and water alike swarm with them? The greedy birds drove away their comrades day after day and the whole day long; by the evening they could hardly move their wings for weariness. At last they got worn out. What were they to do? They thought and thought, and at last an idea struck them.

The male Cedar-crow flew to the Plover. 'Call a meeting of all the birds,' said he; 'on business.'

'What business?' asked the Plover.

'Well, that doesn't matter. Important business.'

'But still, I must know why to call the birds to a meeting; may be you want to disturb them for some trifle?'

'Not for a trifle at all; we want to give up our claim to the forest.'

'How do you mean "Give up your claim"?'

'Why, simply to give it up! We are worried out of our lives. And all because every one considers that we are their comrades, and that they can poke their beaks into our place as if it were their own.'

The Plover saw that there was something very strange, and not only strange, but dismal. The more he thought of it, the worse it seemed to him. However, there was nothing for it but to call a council. 'All right,' he said; 'come again at this time to-morrow.'

The next day the Plover flew over fields, pastures, and forests, wailing more mournfully than ever: 'Pity! Pity! Pity!...'

The birds, wondering at the melancholy cry, flew down in countless numbers to the Vagaï; on all sides resounded chirruping and twittering. Here the mellow call of the cuckoo predominated; there the elaborate whistle of the goldhammer. The Cedar-crow, the forest landowner, was there waiting. She came forward and made her speech—

'It is a custom among you, respected birds, to live together and hold everything in common. That is your own affair; but we cannot live so. We have children, and are bound to think of them and have something to leave them. Among you every one snatches the food from his neighbour's beak, and robs his neighbour without any question; and we find that all this ends in nothing but anxiety. We don't want things that belong to others, and we feel it hard when others give us no peace. So we have resolved to announce to you that we want no part in your communal forest, and will not touch it; we will not take from it a single seed or stalk; but you, on your side, agree together that no one shall peck our nuts, or perch on our cedar, or fly across our glade. This is our request to you, respected birds.'

When the Cedar-crow left off speaking there was silence: the birds sat with their bills wide open, and could not utter a word for amazement.

The first to recover himself was a starling. 'Why—you—idiot!' he cried. 'Think yourself what a fool you are! All the wide world is here before you, and you want to give it up for one little glade!'

'Oh, the world! The world is not mine—it's every one's—not much of it will fall to my share; it's all very well to be so sure! but the cedar, if it is small, at least it's mine!' That is what the Cedar-crow thought; but aloud she only said: 'Well, if you think it better to possess the whole world in common than one little glade separately, what is there to argue about? The world remains to you, so it must be a good bargain for you; and there's nothing more to be said. Then give us our glade, leave us in peace, and that is all we ask.'

'You foolish creature!' exclaimed the other birds; 'he spoke for your advantage; of course, your glade will be no loss to us; but it's piteous to see a creature so blind! He only wanted to bring you to your senses.'

'You must have a lot of good advice to spare if you can give away so much of it without being asked,' replied the Cedar-crow, polishing her broad beak.

Seeing that the Cedar-crow was hopelessly wrong-headed, the birds talked the matter over, and decided that she and her mate should be left in undisturbed possession of their cedar glade, and that no one should approach within twenty fathoms of it.

The Cedar-crows were delighted. Now, they thought, at last we shall be at peace! And so they were. No one ever came near; they had no longer any need to guard their cedar, or to do anything but eat, drink, and sleep. The rest of their time they spent in gazing at one another, and comparing who had the longest beak. Once it chanced that a nightingale, coming from a far country to seek her lost mate (he had been trapped by bird-catchers), flew to the cedar. She did not know of the agreement among the birds of the Vagaï concerning the cedar glade, and she flew into it. The Cedar-crows were so bored that they were almost glad to see her! They flew out, however, and entered into a polite explanation.

'You probably do not know of the agreement concerning this glade. No one has the right to fly within twenty fathoms of it, because it is ours. We have renounced our claim to all the rest of the forest, and do not take a single seed or stalk from it; but this glade belongs to us.'

'Whatever is that for?' asked the Nightingale, in amazement. 'Why, supposing there's a bad harvest on your cedar, what will become of you then?'

It was the first time that such a question had been put to the Cedar-crows, and they did not know what to answer.

'A bad harvest!' Indeed it was possible. It often happens that in one place the harvest fails, and close by, or very near, such a quantity ripens that it goes to waste. But the young birds reassured their parents: on that cedar they had been hatched, and had grown up; they had always lived upon its fruits; they had always seen it the same—mighty and burdened with cones—could they imagine it different?

'A bad harvest! What do you mean?' they cried in chorus. 'The harvest cannot fail on our cedar!'

'Of course it can't!' echoed the parent birds in delight.

The Nightingale shook her little gray head, but made no further comment.

'Then it is forbidden to fly here?' she said. 'I beg your pardon, I did not know.'

'Oh, we are not angry; indeed, as you are on a journey, we shall be glad to offer you some refreshment,' replied the female Cedar-crow, glancing at her mate; and she laid before the Nightingale a single nut.

'Thank you,' said the Nightingale, and flew away without touching the nut.

The Cedar-crows settled down again to their ordinary life, and there is no saying how long they would have gone on in the same way if a runaway tramp had not happened to make a bonfire in the taïgá[11]. It was a long time since he had enjoyed a hot drink, and he was thirsty. He made some tea, drank it, and was just going to start on again, when he heard bells, then a rustling sound and footsteps. The poor fellow was terrified: 'The Ispravnik!'[12] he thought. 'I shall be caught!' He rushed into the thicket, not stopping even to scatter the burning brands or stamp out the embers. In the meantime a light wind rose, the embers glowed, the dry pine-needles caught fire, and soon the flames were creeping on from one fallen trunk to another—farther and farther, wider and wider, licking the trees, curling round whole thickets—and the taïgá was on fire. That is a common thing in Siberia.

For some time the Cedar-crows had noticed that the air was of a milky colour. For some time the sun had been dull-red by day, and by night they could see a far-off crimson glare in the sky. Now the smell of burning was in the air, and still the Cedar-crows could not believe that their estate was in danger of fire. It disturbed them far more that innumerable birds began flying past their glade to the Vagaï; the beasts, too, hurrying to the river, ran straight by the cedar.... Soon it grew difficult to breathe, yet still the Cedar-crows could not bear to part from their estate; they still dreaded lest some other birds or beasts might take possession of their glade. At last, though, they could bear it no longer; they were forced to go. But when, after all, they made up their minds to leave the cedar, it was too late. The fire attacked their glade from all sides at once, and when they attempted to fly upwards they dropped, stifled with smoke, on to the ground. The cool, green grass refreshed them, and, in desperation, they struggled again to reach the river. But all around them rose terrible fiery pillars, and the unhappy birds, scorched and half dead, sank again to the ground, and rose no more.

Presently rain began to pour in torrents, and put out the fire within a few yards of the glade. That glade was now a dismal scene of ruin: the tall grass was burnt brown, the mighty cedar was a charred and naked corpse. All around stood the trees—aspens, birches, limes, and bird-cherries—burnt to skeletons, or with dead and shrivelled leaves hanging from them here and there. Mournfully they raised their barren branches towards the heavens, as though praying for mercy; and thus, with lifted hands, they perished.

But beyond that bare skeleton thicket stood in the distance the fresh and untouched forest. The female Cedar-crow, lying helpless on the ground, gazed upon it despairingly. Beside her lay her fledgling—the only one left alive. He was feebly fluttering his scorched wings and uttering piteous cries.

'Oh, if only some of the birds would come to us!' thought the unhappy mother; 'surely they would have pity on my child, and would carry him down to the waterside and feed him. He would recover there; he would not die of hunger and thirst!...'

But no one came near the glade. All the birds remembered the general agreement: not to disturb the Cedar-crows in their seclusion, and not to approach within twenty fathoms of their estate. And not one of the birds knew what had happened to the Cedar-crow family.

When the bright sun rose next morning no one of that family saw it—they were all dead....

Meanwhile the other birds, leaving the fire-ravaged places for other parts of the forest that were still fresh and green, rejoiced as formerly in the fair world, sharing everything together; and far along the clear Vagaï the air was filled with their joyous and friendly twittering.