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On the night of Ivanov’s Day (that is the day of Saint John, which is Midsummer) there was born the pike, a huge fish, with such teeth as never were.  And when the pike was born the waters of the river foamed and raged, so that the ships in the river were all but swamped, and the pretty young girls who were playing on the banks ran away as fast as they could, frightened, they were, by the roaring of the waves, and the black wind and the white foam on the water.  Terrible was the birth of the sharp-toothed pike.

And when the pike was born he did not grow up by months or by days, but by hours.  Every day it was two inches longer than the day before.  In a month it was two yards long; in two months it was twelve feet long; in three months it was raging up and down the river like a tempest, eating the bream and the perch, and all the small fish that came in its way.  There was a bream or a perch swimming lazily in the stream.  The pike saw it as it raged by, caught it in its great white mouth, and instantly the bream or the perch was gone, torn to pieces by the pike’s teeth, and swallowed as you would swallow a sunflower seed.  And bream and perch are big fish.  It was worse for the little ones.

[Illustration:  “Head in air and tail in sea,
             Fish, fish, listen to me”]

What was to be done?  The bream and the perch put their heads together in a quiet pool.  It was clear enough that the great pike would eat everyone of them.  So they called a meeting of all the little fish, and set to thinking what could be done by way of dealing with the great pike, which had such sharp teeth and was making so free with their lives.

They all came to the meeting—­bream, and perch, and roach, and dace, and gudgeon; yes, and the little ersh with his spiny back.

The silly roach said, “Let us kill the pike.”

But the gudgeon looked at him with his great eyes, and asked, “Have you got good teeth?”

“No,” says the roach, “I haven’t any teeth.”

“You’d swallow the pike, I suppose?” says the perch.

“My mouth is too small.”

“Then do not use it to talk foolishness,” said the gudgeon; and the roach’s fins blushed scarlet, and are red to this day.

“I will set my prickles on end,” says the perch, who has a row of sharp prickles in the fin on his back.  “The pike won’t find them too comfortable in his throat.”

“Yes,” said the bream; “but you will have to go into his throat to put them there, and he’ll swallow you all the same.  Besides, we have not all got prickles.”

There was a lot more foolishness talked.  Even the minnows had something to say, until they were made to be quiet by the dace.

Now the little ersh had come to the meeting, with his spiny back, and his big front fins, and his head all shining in blue and gold and green.  And when he had heard all they had to say, he began to talk.