Page:Poet Lore, volume 28, 1917.djvu/338

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Ivan.—Grandaddy, they were telling me lately that at night, from the Tartar cemetery, little barrels full of money used to roll away.

Prov.—What money?

Ivan.—Why, Tartar money. Old Liávon said so. Always, he says, whenever there comes a misfortune, there's a tinkling sound in the grave, and barrel after barrel rolls out.

Prov.—Well?

Ivan.—Well, at least twenty casks come out together in a row, full to the brim with money. There they lie. And they roll further out. The bones grind together, and over the whole mound they sit down, gleaming white. Their skulls are without eyes, on their heads they wear Tartar helmets, you can count the ribs, — in a word, Death. There they sit, Grandaddy, and their teeth chatter, click-clack! clack-clack! Terrible! But no sooner does the cock crow, then again there comes that tinkling sound, the bones fly apart, and there the casks are, back again, side by side. You look, and look again, and there's nothing there. And the cemetery looks just as it looks now from the mill.

Prov.—If old Lévon had lapped up a little less wine, my boy, you wouldn't be repeating such lying nonsense now.

Ivan.—Not only Liávon but others saw it,and he also said, Grandaddy, that there's a treasure concealed here, a big one!

Prov. — Nothing surprising; they hid their money from the Tartars. You ought to unearth it, Ivan.

Ivan.—Hey! I wish I could, but you see, Grandaddy, that it was hidden under a curse!

Prov.—That's right, my friend; it's too bad about the curse! Listen here; I'll tell you about the treasure. When I went in the summer to Kiev, they pointed out a certain place to me, — a wilderness, where the grass is high; crooked blackthorn grows there and you can't see a single human trace. But in the old times, that place was swarming with people, a regular anthill, a constant going and coming. The story goes that the last of the race who lived there was a very rich prince. He was so rich, so cruel, he bought so much human blood with his money, he made a