ays again, rubbing
his hand. "What makes it thunder, Terenty?"

"One cloud runs against the other," answers the cobbler. The party
come out of the copse, and walk along the edge of it towards the
darkened road. The thunder gradually abates, and its rumbling is
heard far away beyond the village.

"The ducks flew by here the other day, Terenty," says Danilka, still
rubbing his hand. "They must be nesting in the Gniliya Zaimishtcha
marshes. . . . Fyolka, would you like me to show you a nightingale's
nest?"

"Don't touch it, you might disturb them," says Terenty, wringing
the water out of his cap. "The nightingale is a singing-bird, without
sin. He has had a voice given him in his throat, to praise God and
gladden the heart of man. It's a sin to disturb him."

"What about the sparrow?"

"The sparrow doesn't matter, he's a bad, spiteful bird. He is like
a pickpocket in his ways. He doesn't like man to be happy. When
Christ was crucified it was the sparrow brought nails to the Jews,
and called 'alive! alive!'"

A bright patch of blue appears in the sky.

"Look!" says Terenty. "An ant-heap burst open by the rain! They've
been flooded, the rogues!"

They bend over the ant-heap. The downpour has damaged it; the insects
are scurrying to and fro in the mud, agitated, and busily trying
to carry away their drowned companions.

"You needn't be in such a taking, you won't die of it!" says Terenty,
grinning. "As soon as the sun warms you, you'll come to your senses
again. . . . It's a lesson to you, you stupids. You won't settle
on low ground another time."

They go on.

"And here are some bees," cries Danilka, pointing to the branch of
a young oak tree.

The drenched and chilled bees are huddled together on the branch.
There are so many of them that neither bark nor leaf can be seen.
Many of them are settled on one another.

"That's a swarm of bees," Terenty informs them. "They were flying
looking for a home, and when the rain came down upon them they
settled. If a swarm is flying, you need only sprinkle water on them
to make them settle. Now if, say, you wanted to take the swarm, you
would bend the branch with them into a sack and shake it, and they
all fall in."

Little Fyokla suddenly frowns and rubs her neck vigorously. Her
brother looks at her neck, and sees a big swelling on it.

"Hey-hey!" laughs the cobbler. "Do you know where you got that from,
Fyokia, old girl? There are Spanish flies on some tree in th