“I wonder what story it will be to-night?” said Maroosia.

“So do I,” said Vanya.  “I wish they’d be quick and come back.”

Vladimir stirred suddenly in Vanya’s lap, and a minute later they heard the scrunch of boots in the snow, and the stamping of old Peter’s feet trying to get the snow off his boots.  Then the door opened, and Bayan pushed his way in and shook himself, and licked Maroosia and Vanya and startled Vladimir, and lay down under the table and came out again, because he was so pleased to be home.  And old Peter came in after him, with his gun on his back and a hare in his hand.  He shook himself just like Bayan, and the snow flew off like spray.  He hung up his gun, flung the hare into a corner of the hut, and laughed.

“You are snug in here, little pigeons,” he said.

Vanya and Maroosia had jumped up to welcome him, and when he opened his big sheepskin coat, they tumbled into it together and clung to his belt.  Then he closed the big woolly coat over the top of them and they squealed; and he opened it a little way and looked down at them over his beard, and then closed it again for a moment before letting them out.  He did this every night, and Bayan always barked when they were shut up inside.

Then old Peter took his big coat off and lifted down the samovar from the shelf.  The samovar is like a big tea-urn, with a red-hot fire in the middle of it keeping the water boiling.  It hums like a bee on the tea-table, and the steam rises in a little jet from a tiny hole in the top.  The boiling water comes out of a tap at the bottom.  Old Peter threw in the lighted sticks and charcoal, and made a draught to draw the heat, and then set the samovar on the table with the little fire crackling in its inside.  Then he cut some big lumps of black bread.  Then he took a great saucepan full of soup, that was simmering on the stove, and emptied it into a big wooden bowl.  Then he went to the wall where, on three nails, hung three wooden spoons, deep like ladles.  There were one big spoon, for old Peter; and two little spoons, one for Vanya and one for Maroosia.

And all the time that old Peter was getting supper ready he was answering questions and making jokes—­old ones, of course, that he made every day—­about how plump the children were, and how fat was better to eat than butter, and what the Man in the Moon said when he fell out, and what the wolf said who caught his own tail and ate himself up before he found out his mistake.

And Vanya and Maroosia danced about the hut and chuckled.

Then they had supper, all three dipping their wooden spoons in the big bowl together, and eating a tremendous lot of black bread.  And, of course, there were scraps for Vladimir and a bone for Bayan.

After that they had tea with sugar but no milk, because they were Russians and liked it that way.

Then came the stories.  Old Peter made another glass of tea for himself, not for the children.  His throat was old, he said, and took a lot of keeping wet; and they were young, and would not sleep if they drank tea too near bedtime.  Then he threw a log of wood into the stove.  Then he lit a short little pipe, full of very strong tobacco, called Mahorka, which has a smell like hot tin.  And he puffed, and the smoke got in his eyes, and he wiped them with the back of his big hand.