Early in the morning she woke the old man again, and he had to get up and go down to the seashore.  He was very much afraid, because he thought the fish would not take it kindly.  But at dawn, just as the red sun was rising out of the sea, he stood on the shore, and called out in his windy old voice,—­

    “Head in air and tail in sea,
    Fish, fish, listen to me.”

And there in the morning sunlight was the golden fish, looking at him with its wise eyes.

“I beg your pardon,” says the old man, “but could you, just to oblige my wife, give us some sort of trough to put the bread in?”

“Go home,” says the fish; and down it goes into the blue sea.

The old man went home, and there, outside the hut, was the old woman, looking at the handsomest bread trough that ever was seen on earth.  Painted it was, with little flowers, in three colours, and there were strips of gilding about its handles.

“Look at this,” grumbled the old woman.  “This is far too fine a trough for a tumbledown hut like ours.  Why, there is scarcely a place in the roof where the rain does not come through.  If we were to keep this trough in such a hut, it would be spoiled in a month.  You must go back to your fish and ask it for a new hut.”

“I hardly like to do that,” says the old man.

“Get along with you,” says his wife.  “If the fish can make a trough like this, a hut will be no trouble to him.  And, after all, you must not forget he owes his life to you.”

“I suppose that is true,” says the old man; but he went back to the shore with a heavy heart.  He stood on the edge of the sea and called out, doubtfully,—­

    “Head in air and tail in sea,
    Fish, fish, listen to me.”

Instantly there was a ripple in the water, and the golden fish was looking at him with its wise eyes.

“Well?” says the fish.

“My old woman is so pleased with the trough that she wants a new hut to keep it in, because ours, if you could only see it, is really falling to pieces, and the rain comes in and ——.”

“Go home,” says the fish.

The old fisherman went home, but he could not find his old hut at all.  At first he thought he had lost his way.  But then he saw his wife.  And she was walking about, first one way and then the other, looking at the finest hut that God ever gave a poor moujik to keep him from the rain and the cold, and the too great heat of the sun.  It was built of sound logs, neatly finished at the ends and carved.  And the overhanging of the roof was cut in patterns, so neat, so pretty, you could never think how they had been done.  The old woman looked at it from all sides.  And the old man stood, wondering.  Then they went in together.  And everything within the hut was new and clean.  There were a fine big stove, and strong wooden benches, and a good table, and a fire lit in the stove, and logs ready to put in, and a samovar already on the boil—­a fine new samovar of glittering brass.