goods
being seized upon, he will become a bankrupt; and he also will return to
his father."

At the conclusion of this narrative they inquired of the third devil how
things had fared between him and Ivan.

"Well," said he, "my report is not so encouraging. The first thing I did
was to spit into his jug of quass [a sour drink made from rye],
which made him sick at his stomach. He afterward went to plow his
summer-fallow, but I made the soil so hard that the plow could scarcely
penetrate it. I thought the Fool would not succeed, but he started to
work nevertheless. Moaning with pain, he still continued to labor. I
broke one plow, but he replaced it with another, fixing it securely, and
resumed work. Going beneath the surface of the ground I took hold of the
plowshares, but did not succeed in stopping Ivan. He pressed so hard,
and the colter was so sharp, that my hands were cut; and despite my
utmost efforts, he went over all but a small portion of the field."

He concluded with: "Come, brothers, and help me, for if we do not
conquer him our whole enterprise will be a failure. If the Fool is
permitted successfully to conduct his farming, they will have no need,
for he will support his brothers."

CHAPTER III.

Ivan having succeeded in plowing all but a small portion of his land, he
returned the next day to finish it. The pain in his stomach continued,
but he felt that he must go on with his work. He tried to start his
plow, but it would not move; it seemed to have struck a hard root. It
was the small devil in the ground who had wound his feet around the
plowshares and held them.

"This is strange," thought Ivan. "There were never any roots here
before, and this is surely one."

Ivan put his hand in the ground, and, feeling something soft, grasped
and pulled it out. It was like a root in appearance, but seemed
to possess life. Holding it up he saw that it was a little devil.
Disgusted, he exclaimed, "See the nasty thing," and he proceeded to
strike it a blow, intending to kill it, when the young devil cried out:

"Do not kill me, and I will grant your every wish."

"What can you do for me?"

"Tell me what it is you most wish for," the little devil replied.

Ivan, peasant-fashion, scratched the back of his head as he thought, and
finally he said:

"I am dreadfully sick at my stomach. Can you cure me?"

"I can," the little devil said.

"Then do so."

The little devil bent toward the earth and began searc