Stories form Soviet Childhood: Garderners! (1)

Hello,

as you remember we in Russia strongly believe that it's very important to know what kind of books read people when they were kids. That's why to help you to find out about Russian people we publish the Stories from Soviet Childhood! These stories are really very good and maybe you would like to read some of them to your kids? ;)

Today we continue reading stories by Nikolai Nosov (Николай Носов) and start to read his next story Gardeners, 1938: about life and adventures in a pioneer camp.

Gardeners

(Part 1)

A day or two after we arrived at the Pioneer camp last summer, Vitya [a boy's name], our Pioneer leader, announced that we were going to plant our own vegetable garden. We got together to discuss how to organize the work and what vegetables to plant. It was decided to divide up the garden into small plots and assign teams of two Pioneers to each plot. There would be a competition for the best plot and the winner would get a prize. The leading teams would help the lagging ones so that the soil would be thoroughly cultivated and yield a good harvest.

Mishka [a boy's name] and I asked to be put in the same team. Before we came to camp we had agreed that we would work together and go fishing together and everything.

Vadik Zaitsev[a boy's name] proposed having a Challenge Banner to be awarded to the team that finished the digging first. Everybody agreed and it was decided to pass on the banner to the best planters and then to the best weeders. And the team that raised the biggest harvest would take the banner back to town.

Mishka and I made up our minds to win that banner.
"We'll win it at the start and we won't let go of it all summer and it'll go back to town with us," said Mishka.

We had been given a piece of land near the river. We measured it, marked off the plots and stuck in wooden markers with numbers on them. Mishka and I got plot No. 12. Mishka wasn't satisfied. He ran off to Vitya to complain that we had been given the worst plot.

"Why is it the worst?" Vitya asked.
"There's a hole in the middle!"
"What about it," laughed Vitya. "Besides, that's not a hole, it's a hoof-print."
"There's a tree-stump on it,"grumbled Mishka.
"The other plots have tree-stumps too."
But Mishka wouldn't listen.
"It will have to be dug up," he cried.
"Well, go ahead and dig it up. If you need help the others will lend you a hand."
"Thanks, we'll manage ourselves," said Mishka huffily. "And help the others too."
"That's the spirit!" said Vitya.

Everyone started digging, Mishka and I as well. But every few minutes Mishka stopped digging to run and see how much the others had done.
"If you don't get to work we'll soon be way behind the others," I told him.
"That's all right," he said. "I'll catch up."
He started catching up, but in a little while he was off again.
We didn't get much done that day because pretty soon the dinner bell went. Mishka and I wanted to rush off to the plot after dinner, but Vitya stopped us.
"That will be enough for one day. We'll only work in the mornings. After dinner we'll rest. Otherwise some of you chaps will overdo it the first day and won't be able to work the rest of the time."

The next morning Mishka and I went off to our plot before the others and started digging. After a while Mishka asked Vitya for the tape-measure and began measuring to see how much we had dug and how much was left. After that he did a little more digging and then began measuring again. And each time he measured he found we hadn't done enough.

"Of course we haven't," I said. "Because I'm doing the digging. All you do is measure."
He threw down the tape-measure and started digging again. But he hadn't done much when his spade struck a root and he stopped digging to pull the root up. He pulled and he pulled but it wouldn't come up. He turned over the whole plot and part of the next one, trying to get it out.
"Leave it alone!" I said. "What are you bothering with it for?"
"How was I to know it was half a mile long?"
"Well, let it be."
"But it has to end somewhere, hasn't it?"
"What difference does it make to you?"
"I'm that kind of a person. If I start something I've got to see it through."
And he grabbed the root again with both hands. I got angry, went over to the root and hacked it loose with my spade. Mishka took the tape-measure and measured it.
"Look at that," he said. "Six and a half metres! Now if you hadn't cut it off it might have been twenty metres!"
I said: "If I'd known you were going to dawdle about instead of working I'd never have hitched up with you."
"Go ahead and work by yourself if you like. I'm not forcing you to work with me."
"After I've dug up most of the plot already? Nothing doing. But we certainly won't be the first to finish."
"Who says we won't? Look at Vanya Lozhkin and Senya Bobrov. They've dug even less than we have."
He went over to Vanya Lozhkin's [a boy's name] plot and began jeering at them:
"Some diggers! We'll have to lend you .a hand pretty soon."
But they drove him away. "You'd better get to work or we'll be lending you a hand."
I said: "You're a fine one, making fun of others when you've done hardly anything yourself! I'm sorry I hitched up with you."
"Don't worry," he said. "I've thought up a wonderful idea. Tomorrow we'll have the banner on our plot, you'll see."
"You're crazy," I said. "There's a good two days' work to be done on this plot, and it'll be four days if you carry on like this."
"You'll see. I'll tell you my plan later on."
"All right, but do get to work now. The ground won't dig itself."
He picked up his spade to start digging, but just then Vitya said it was time for dinner, so he threw his spade over his shoulder and led the way to the dining-room.

After dinner we all helped Vitya make the banner. We found a piece of wood for the staff, cut and sewed the cloth and painted the staff in gilt paint. Vitya wrote the inscription "Best Gardener" in silver letters on the banner. It looked very handsome.

"Let's make a scarecrow as well," said Mishka. "To keep the crows off our garden."
Everyone liked the idea enormously. We got ,a pole, tied a stick across it for arms, got an old sack for a shirt, and stuck an earthenware pot on top for a head. Mishka drew eyes, a nose and a mouth on the pot with charcoal and our scarecrow was ready. It did look a fright! We stood it in the middle of the garden and had a good laugh at it.

Mishka took me aside and whispered in my ear: "Here's my plan. Tonight when everyone is asleep we'll go and dig up our whole plot, all except a little bit which we can easily finish tomorrow. We're sure to win the banner then."
"If you would only work," I said. "But you keep fussing with all sorts of silly nonsense."
"This time I'll work like blazes, you'll see."
"All right. But if you don't, I won't either."

That night Mishka and I went to bed with the others. But we only pretended to go to sleep. When everything was quiet Mishka gave me a dig in the ribs. I had just dozed off. "Wake up," he said in a loud whisper. "We'd better get started or we'll have to kiss that banner good-bye."
We crept out of the dormitory, got our spades and hurried off to the plot. It was a bright moonlight night and everything stood out clearly and distinctly.

In a few minutes we had reached the plot.
"Here we are," said Mishka. "This is our plot. I can tell by the stump sticking up in the middle."
We set to work. This time Mishka really did work and before long we had dug all the way up to the stump. We decided to pull it up. We loosened the earth all around it and pulled at it as hard as we could, but it wouldn't budge. We had to hack away the roots with our spades. It was hard work, but finally we got it out. Then we evened out the ground and Mishka tossed the stump over to the next plot.
"That's not a nice thing to do," I said.
"Where are we going to put it?"
"Not on our neighbour's plot anyway."
"All right, let's throw it into the river."
We picked it up and hauled it down to the river. It was very heavy and we had a nasty time with it. But finally we got it down to the bank and dropped it plonk into the water. It floated down the river looking like an octopus with the roots sticking out all over it. We watched until it was out of sight and then went home. We were too tired to do any more digging that night. Besides, we had only a little bit left to dig now.

We'll continue...


Best wishes,

Svet

comments always welcome

Stories from Soviet Childhood: The Pistol (2)

Hello,

As you remember on Wednesdays we publish Stories from Soviet Childhood - my generation was brought up reading the stories, and generation of our parents was brought up on them and we tried to bring up our children by reading them good children book. Today we are finishing a story by Nikolay Nosov "The pistol". If you did not read the first part please click at the little picture. To the right ---->

The Pistol

(Part 2)

At that moment steps were heard outside and the door-bell rang. Marina and Ira ran to open the door. Sasha [boy's name] poked his head into the passage and hissed after them: "Don't let him in!"
But Marina [girls's name] had already opened the door. Sure enough, there on the threshold stood a militiaman [policeman]. The brass buttons on his uniform fairly shone. Sasha dropped on to his hands and knees and crawled under the sofa.

"Is this Apartment No. 6?" he heard the militiaman ask.
"No," said Ira. "This is No. 1, No. 6 is in the house next door. The one on the right."
"Thanks," said the militiaman.

Sasha heaved a sigh of relief and was about to climb out from under the sofa when the militiaman asked:
"By the way, is there a boy called Sasha in this flat?"
"Yes," said Ira [girl's name].
"He's the one I want," said the militiaman and walked straight into the room.

When the girls came in they saw that Sasha had disappeared. Marina peeped under the sofa but Sasha shook his head violently and signed to her not to give him away.

"Well, and where is that Sasha of yours?" asked the militiaman.
By this time the girls were a little frightened too and they didn't know what to say.
Finally Marina said: "He . . . er, he isn't home just now. He ... er, he went out to play."
"What do you want him for?" asked Ira. "Do you know anything about him?"
"I know all sorts of things," said the militiaman. "I know that his name is Sasha. I also know that he had a brand-new toy pistol and that now he hasn't got it."

"He knows everything!" thought Sasha in horror.
He was so nervous that his nose began to itch and before he could stop himself he sneezed.

"Who's that?" asked the militiaman in surprise.
"That's our dog," Marina said hastily.
"What is he doing under the sofa?"
"Oh, he always sleeps under the sofa," Marina went on.
"Indeed? And what is his name?"
"Er .. . Bobik," said Marina, turning red as a beet-root.
"Bobik! Bobik! Hallo there, Bobik!" called the militiaman and whistled. "Why doesn't he come out, I wonder?" He whistled again. "Doesn't want to. Funny dog. What breed did you say he was?"
"Er ... he's ... er...." Marina couldn't for the life of her remember the name of a single breed. "He's a ... what do you call it. A very good breed. . . , Oh, yes, a Doberman pinscher."
"That's a fine breed," said the militiaman with a broad smile. "I know that breed very well. They have long hair all over their faces."

He bent down and peered under the sofa. Sasha stared back at him, his eyes round with fright. The militiaman whistled again, this time with amazement.
"So that's your Doberman pinscher! Hey there, young man, what are you doing under the sofa? Come out. You're caught anyway."

"I shan't come out," cried Sasha.
"Why not?"
"Because you'll take me to the militia station."
"What for?"
"For that old woman."
"What old woman?"
"The one I frightened with my pistol."
The militiaman raised his eyebrows. "Whatever is he talking about?"
"He was outside playing with his pistol and an old woman was passing just as he fired and she took fright," Ira explained.

"This must be his property then?" said the militiaman, producing a shiny new pistol from his pocket.
"That's his!" said Ira. "Marina and I bought it for him and he lost it. Where did you find it?"
"In the back yard near your door. Now what do you mean by frightening old women with a pistol, young man?" said the militiaman, bending down to Sasha who was still crouching under the sofa.

"I didn't mean to."
"You're not telling the truth. I can see by your eyes. If you tell me the truth, I'll give you back your pistol."
"And you won't take me to the militia station?"
"No."

"I didn't mean to scare her. I only wanted to see whether she would be scared or not."
"Now that isn't nice at all, young man. I really ought to lock you up for that, but since I promised, I won't. But if I catch you doing anything like that again.... Come now, get out from under there and I'll give you your pistol."
"No, I'll come out when you've gone."
"You are a funny one," laughed the militiaman. "All right, I'm going."

He laid the pistol on the table and went out. Marina showed him to the door. Sasha climbed out from under the sofa, snatched up his beloved pistol and hugged it.

"Hurrah, my dear darling pistol. So you've come back to me after all. But how did the militiaman know my name, I wonder?"

"You wrote it yourself on the handle," said Ira.
Just then Marina came back. She pounced on Sasha at once.
"You naughty boy! When I think of all the lies I had to tell that militiaman because of you I could nearly die with shame. The next time you get into a scrape like that, don't expect me to protect you."

"I shan't get into any more scrapes," said Sasha. "I'll never frighten anyone again."


Best wishes and next Wednesday we will read next story!

Svet

comments always welcome

Stories from Soviet Childhood: The Pistol (1)

Hello,

Today we'll continue reading Soviet Stories for children and we will start to read next story by Nikolay Nosov "The Pistol".

The Pistol

(Part 1)

For a long time Sasha [a boy's name] had been trying to persuade his mother to buy him a toy pistol, one of those pistols that shoot caps.

"I'm not going to let you have a pistol like that," his mother said. "It's dangerous."
"No, it isn't, Mummy," Sasha protested. "If it shot bullets it would be dangerous, but you can't kill anyone with caps."
"You may hurt somebody or knock your eye out."
"I'll shut my eyes when I shoot."
"No. I won't have it. There's no end of trouble with those toy pistols. They're not safe. You may frighten someone with it," said his mother.
And that was the end of it as far as she was concerned.

Now, Sasha had two older sisters, Marina and Ira [girls' names]. So he went to them and begged for a pistol.
"I want one so badly. I promise to do anything you tell me to if you buy me one."
"Oh, Sasha," said Marina. "You're a sly little thing! When you want something you're as sweet as pie, but as soon as Mother goes out you make a nuisance of yourself."
"I won't any more, honest I won't. I'll be ever so good."
"All right," said Ira. "Marina and I will think it over. If you promise faithfully to be good we might buy you a pistol."
"I promise. I'll be as good as gold. You'll see!"

The next day Sasha's sisters went out and bought him a pistol and a whole box of caps.
When Sasha saw the shiny black pistol and the box of caps he jumped for joy and ran around the room hugging it to him in great excitement.

"Oh, my darling pistol. How I love you!"
Then he scratched his name on the handle and started shooting. Before long the whole room was blue with smoke.
"Oh, do stop it for goodness' sake," said Ira. "I jump every time it goes off."
"Coward," said Sasha. "All girls are cowards."
"We'll take it away from you if you call us names," said Marina.
"All right, I'll go outside and frighten the boys with it," said Sasha.

He went into the back yard but there were no boys about. So he ran out on to the street and it is here that our story really begins.

As Sasha stepped out of his back yard he saw an old woman coming down the street. He waited until she came quite close and then he fired. Bang! The old woman jumped and gave a little scream.
"Oh dear, I did get a fright!" Then she turned and saw Sasha.
"So it was you who fired? You bad boy!"
"It wasn't me," said Sasha, hiding the pistol behind his back.
"Now then, young man, you needn't tell lies. I saw you. I'm going to report you to the militia [the militia=police] for this."
She shook her finger at him, crossed the street and disappeared round the corner.
Sasha was frightened. "Oh, oh! What shall I do? She's gone to the militia to complain."

He ran home, shaking with fright.
"What's the matter with you?" asked Ira as he ran in panting.
"You look as if a wolf had been chasing you. What have you done now?"
"Er ... nothing!"
"Don't tell lies. I can see you've been up to mischief." "I haven't done anything. It's just.... The pistol went off and she took fright."
"Who took fright?"
"The old woman who was walking down the street." "Why did you fire?"
"I don't know. I just saw her coming and I thought it would be fun to fire. So I pulled the trigger."
"What did she say?"
"Nothing. She went to the militia to complain."
"There, you see. You promised to behave and now look what you've done!"
"How was I to know she'd be such a scarey old thing?"
"You wait, the militiaman will come after you. He'll give you what for!"
"How will he find me? He doesn't know where I live. He doesn't even know my name."
"Don't worry. He'll find you. The militia knows everything."

Sasha sat home for a whole hour looking out of the window every few minutes to see if the militiaman was coming. But no one came. After a while he calmed down a little and brightened up.
"The old woman must have been trying to frighten me."

He put his hand in his pocket to pull out his beloved pistol, but the pistol was gone. The box of caps was there, but no pistol. He tried the other pocket, but it was empty. He searched all over the room. He looked under the tables and under the sofa, but there was no sign of it. Sasha wept with mortification.
"I hardly had it at all," he sobbed. "Such a lovely pistol. And now it's gone."
"Perhaps you left it in the yard?" suggested Ira.
"I must have dropped it by the gate," said Sasha. "I'll go and see."

He ran outside on to the street, but there was no sign of the pistol.
"Of course, someone picked it up," he thought. Just then a militiaman [policeman] came round the corner and made straight for their house.
"He's coming for me! The old woman must have complained after all," thought Sasha and dashed home as fast as he could.
"Well, did you find it?" asked his sisters.
"Sh!" hissed Sasha. "A militiaman is coming."
"A militiaman?"
"Yes, he's coming here."
"Where did you see him?"
"Out there in the street."
Marina and Ira laughed at him. "You little coward! Saw a militiaman outside and got scared. He's probably not coming this way at all."
"I don't care if he is!" said Sasha stoutly. "I'm not afraid of him."

At that moment steps were heard outside and the door-bell rang. Marina and Ira ran to open the door. Sasha poked his head into the passage and hissed after them: "Don't let him in!"
But Marina had already opened the door......

We'll continue the story next Wednesday!

Best wishes and next Wednesday we will read the end of this story!

Svet

comments always welcome

Stories from Soviet Childhood: MISHKA'S PORRIDGE (2)

Hello,

As you remember on Wednesdays we publish Stories from Soviet Childhood - my generation was brought up reading the stories, and generation of our parents was brought up on them and we tried to bring up our children by reading them good children book. Today we are finishing a story by Nikolay Nosov "Mishka's Porridge". If you did not read the first part please click at the little picture. To the right ---->

MISHKA'S PORRIDGE
(Part 2)

Mishka [a boy's name] took matches, tied a rope round the handle of the pail and went off to the well. In a few minutes he was back.

"Where's the water?" I asked him. .
"Water? Out there in the well."
"Don't be silly. What've you done with the pail?"
"The pail? That's in the well too."
"In the well?"
"That's right."
"You mean you dropped it?"
"That's right."
"Oh, you silly donkey! We'll starve to death this way. How are we going to get water now?"
"We can use the kettle."
I took the kettle. "Give me the rope."
"I haven't got it."
"Where is it?"
"Down there."
"Down where?"
"In the well."
"So you dropped the pail along with the rope?"
"That's right."

We started hunting for another piece of rope, but we couldn't find any.
"I'll go and ask the neighbors," said Mishka.
"You can't," I said. "Look at the time. Everyone's gone to bed long ago."
As luck would have it, I felt awfully thirsty. I was simply dying for a drink.

Mishka said: "It's always like that. When there's no water you always feel thirsty. That's why people always get thirsty in the desert —because there's no water in the desert."
"Never mind about deserts," I said. "You go and find some rope."
"Where shall I find it? I've looked everywhere. Let's use the fishing-line."
"Is it strong enough?"
"I think so."
"What if it isn't?"
"If it isn't, it'll break."
We unwound the fishing-line, tied it to the kettle and went out to the well. I lowered the kettle into the well and filled it with water. The line was as taut as a violin string.
"It's going to snap," I said. "You watch."
"Perhaps it'll hold if we lift it very, very carefully," said Mishka.
I raised it as carefully as I could. I had just got it above the water when there was a splash, and the kettle was gone.
"Did it break?" said Mishka. . "Of course it did. How are we going to get water now?"
"Let's try the samovar," said Mishka.
"No. We might as well throw the samovar straight into the well. Less trouble. Besides, we haven't any more rope."
"All right then, use the pot."
"We haven't so many pots to throw away," I said.
"Well, then, try a tumbler."
"Do you want to spend the rest of the night scooping up water by the tumblerful?"
"But what are we going to do? We've got to finish cooking the porridge. Besides, I'm terribly thirsty."
"Let's try the tin mug," I said. "It's a little bigger than a tumbler anyway."

We went back to the house, tied the fishing-line to the mug so that it wouldn't overturn and went back to the well. After we had drunk our fill of water Mishka said:
"That's what always happens—when you're thirsty you think you could drink up the sea, but when you begin drinking you find one mugful is plenty. That's because people are naturally greedy."

"Stop jabbering and bring the pot out here. We can fill it with water straight from the well. It will save us running back and forth a dozen times."
Mishka brought the pot and stood it right at the edge of the well. I very nearly knocked it off with my elbow.

"Silly donkey," I said. "What's the idea of putting it right under my elbow? Hold on to it and keep as far from the well as you can, or you'll send it flying into the water."

Mishka took the pot and moved away from the well. I filled it up and we went back to the house. By this time our porridge was quite cold and the fire had gone out. We got it going again and put the pot back on the stove to cook. After a long time it started to boil, thickened gradually and made plopping noises.

"Hear that?" said Mishka. "We're going to have some wonderful porridge soon."
I took a little on a spoon and tasted it. It was awful! It had a nasty bitter burnt taste, and we had forgotten to salt it. Mishka tasted it too and spat it out at once.
"No," he said. "I'd rather die of hunger than eat such stuff."
"You would certainly die if you did eat it," I said.
"But what shall we do?"
"I don't know."
"Donkeys!" cried Mishka. "We've forgotten the fish."
"We're not going to start bothering with fish at this time of night. It will be morning soon."
"We won't boil them, we'll fry them. They'll be ready in a minute, you'll see."
"Oh, all right," I said. "But if it's going to take as long as the porridge, count me out."
"It'll be ready in five minutes, you'll see."

Mishka cleaned the fish and put them on the frying-pan. The pan got hot and the fish stuck to the bottom. He tried to pull them off and made quite a mess of them.

I said: "Whoever tried frying fish without butter?"
Mishka got a bottle of vegetable oil and poured some on to the pan and put it into the stove straight on the coals so it should cook faster. The oil spluttered and crackled and suddenly it caught fire. Mishka snatched up the frying-pan and I wanted to pour water on it, but there wasn't a drop of water in the house, so it burned and burned until all the oil had burned out. The room was full of smoke and all that was left of the fish were a few burned coals.

"Well," said Mishka, "what are we going to fry now?"
"No more frying. Besides spoiling good food you're liable to burn the house down. You've done enough cooking for one day!"
"But what shall we eat?
"
We tried chewing raw meal but it wasn't much fun. We tried a raw onion, but it was bitter. We tried vegetable oil and nearly made ourselves sick. Finally we found the jam pot, licked it clean and went to bed. It was very late by then.

We woke up in the morning as hungry as wolves. Mishka wanted to cook some porridge, but when I saw him get out the meal I got cold all over.

"Don't you dare," I said. "I'll go to Aunt Natasha, our landlady, and ask her to cook some porridge for us."

We went to Aunt Natasha and told her all about it and promised to weed her garden for her if she would cook some porridge for us. She took pity on us and gave us some milk and cabbage pie while she cooked our porridge. And we ate and ate as if we couldn't stop. Aunt Natasha's little boy Vovka stood watching with his eyes popping out.

At last we had had enough. Aunt Natasha gave us a hook and some rope and we went to fish the pail and the kettle out of the well. It took us a long time before we finally managed to pull them up. But luckily nothing got lost. After that, Mishka and I and little Vovka weeded Aunt Natasha's garden.

Mishka said: "Weeding is nothing. Anybody can do it. It's easy. Much easier than cooking porridge, anyway."

Best wishes and next Wednesday we will read next story!

Svet

comments always welcome

Stories from Soviet Childhood: MISHKA'S PORRIDGE (1)

Hello,

Today we continue reading stories from my Soviet Childhood. How I already told that is very important to know what books people read and what movies watched when they were kids. That gives us a clue to understand who these people are. Today we start to read next story by Noikolay Nosov, first it was published in the magazine for children "Murzilka" then in the book Rat-tat-tat (Тук-тук-тук), 1945. Many generation of Soviet people were brought up on this stories. And I'll tell you a secret that I like them all but maybe "Mishka's Porrige" is my favorite ;).

MISHKA'S PORRIDGE

(Part 1)

Last summer when I was living in the country with my mother, Mishka [a boy's name] came to stay with us. I was very pleased to see him because I had been quite lonely without him. Mum was pleased to see him too.

"I'm so glad you've come," she said. "You two boys can keep each other company. I have to go to town early tomorrow, and I don't know when I'll be back. Do you think you can manage here by yourselves?"

"Of course we can," I said. "We aren't babies."

"You'll have to make your own breakfast. Do you know how to cook porridge?"

"I do," said Mishka. "It's easy as anything."
"Mishka," I said, "are you quite sure you know? When did you ever cook porridge?"
"Don't worry. I've seen Mum cook it. You leave it to me. I won't let you starve. I'll make you the best porridge you've ever tasted."

In the morning Mum left us a supply of bread and some jam for our tea and showed us where the oatmeal was. She told us how to cook it too, but I didn't bother to listen. Why should I bother if Mishka knows all about it, I thought.

Then Mum went away and Mishka and I decided to go down to the river to fish. We got out our fishing-tackle and dug up some worms.
"Just a minute," I said. "Who's going to cook the porridge if we go down to the river?"
"Who wants to bother with cooking?" said Mishka. "It's too much trouble. We can eat bread and jam instead. There's plenty of bread. We'll cook the porridge later on when we get hungry."

We made a lot of jam sandwiches and went off to the river. We went in swimming and lay on the sandy beach afterwards drying ourselves and eating our sandwiches. Then we fished. We sat for a long time but the fish wouldn't bite. All we got was a dozen or so gudgeons, teeny-weeny ones. We spent most of the day down at the river. Late in the afternoon we got terribly hungry and hurried home to get something to eat.

"Now then, Mishka," I said. "You're the expert. What shall we make?"
"Let's make some porridge," said Mishka. "It's the easiest."
"All right," I said.
We lit the stove. Mishka got the meal and pot.
"See you make plenty while you're at it. I'm good and hungry."
He nearly filled the pot up with meal and poured in water up to the brim.
"Isn't that too much water?" I said.
"No, that's the way Mother makes it. You look after the stove and leave the porridge to me."
So I kept the fire going while Mishka cooked the porridge, which means that he sat and watched the pot, because the porridge cooked by itself.

Before long it got quite dark and we had to light the lamp. And the porridge went on cooking. Suddenly I looked up and saw the pot lid rising and the porridge spilling out over the side.

"Hey, Mishka," I said. "What's the matter with the porridge?"
"Why, what's wrong with it?"
"It's climbing right out of the pot!"
Mishka grabbed a spoon and began pushing the porridge back into the pot. He pushed and pushed, but it kept swelling up and spilling over the side.
"I don't know what's happened to it. Perhaps it's ready?"

I took a spoon and tasted a little, but the meal was still hard and dry.
"Where's all the water gone?"
"I don't know," said Mishka. "I put an awful lot in. Perhaps there's a hole in the pot?"
We looked all over the pot but there wasn't any sign of a hole.
"Must have evaporated," he said. "We'll have to add some more."
He took some of the porridge out of the pot and put it on a plate; he had to take out quite a bit to make room for the water. Then we put the pot back on the stove and let it cook some more. It cooked and cooked and after a while it began spilling over the side again.

"Hey, what's the idea!" cried Mishka. "Why won't it stay in the pot?"
He snatched up his spoon and scooped out some more porridge and added another cup of water.
"Look at that," he said. "You thought there was too much water."
The porridge went on cooking. And would you believe it, in a little while it lifted the lid and came crawling out again!
I said: "You must have put too much meal in. That's what it is. It swells when it cooks and there's not enough room in the pot for it."
"Yes, that must be it," said Mishka. "It's all your fault. You told me to put a lot in because you were hungry, remember?"
"How do I know how much to put in? You're the one who's supposed to know how to cook."
"So I do. I'd have it cooked by now if you hadn't interfered."
"All right, cook away, I shan't say another word."

I went off in a huff and Mishka went on cooking the porridge, that is, he kept scooping out the extra porridge and adding water. Soon the whole table was covered with plates of half-cooked porridge. And he added water each time.
Finally I lost patience.

"You're not doing it right. This way the porridge won't be ready till morning."
"Well, that's how they do it in big restaurants. Didn't you know that? They always cook dinner the night before so it should be ready by morning."
"That's all right for restaurants. They don't need to hurry because they have heaps of other food."
"We don't need to hurry either."
"Don't we! I'm starving. And besides it's time to go to bed. See how late it is."
"You'll have plenty of time to sleep," he said, throwing another glass of water into the pot. Suddenly it dawned on me what was wrong,
"Of course it won't cook if you keep adding cold water," I said.
"You think you can cook porridge without water?"
"No, I think you've still got too much meal in that pot."
I took the pot, spilled out half the meal and told him to fill it with water.
He took the mug and went to the pail.
"Dash it," he said. "The water's all gone."
"What shall we do now? It's pitch dark, we'll never be able to find the well."
"Rats, I'll bring some in a jiffy."
He took matches, tied a rope round the handle of the pail and went off to the well. In a few minutes he was back.
"Where's the water?" I asked him. .
"Water? Out there in the well."
"Don't be silly. What have you done with the pail?"
"The pail? That's in the well too."

.......
We'll continue to read the story next Wednesday.


Best wishes,

Svet

comments always welcome