Premium Bedtime Stories For Girlfriend(Make Your Night Beautiful)

By the way, many people like to listen to stories while sleeping at night, especially women who are very desperate to hear bedtime stories for a girlfriend. My girlfriend also loves listening to stories. I often tell him many stories. However, my profession is to keep bringing good short bedtime stories for people.

I have a good interest in short stories and I also have a good experience of how most short romantic bedtime stories for girlfriend. By the way, girls do more tantrums, though they are experts in them, or even say that this is their profession.

Okay, we have joked a lot, now we work to find romantic bedtime stories for girlfriend. I tell you 3 great stories that your girlfriend will surely like. This story is related to real life. Most of the girls ie the Girlfriend likes Motivational stories or Surprise stories.

Are you thinking that girlfriends should tell ghost stories at night? Never do this because a girlfriend is already like a ghost and later you will insult the ghost by telling the girlfriend’s ghost story, then it is not right. It is very bad my friend.

Ok Enough jokes, This is the time tell to the story to our girlfriends. It is said that stories are comfort or a feeling that creates peace in the mind and enhances the capacity of our thoughts.

girlfriend stories

3 Best Bedtime Stories For Girlfriend

Your girlfriend will surely like these three cute bedtime stories for girlfriend. You will be able to impress your girlfriend. Although I understand very well which stories are used to impress our girlfriends.

  • Heaven To Hell
  • Breakfast in Virginia
  • Story Of Vanka Zhukov

short bedtime stories for girlfriend

1. Heaven To Hell long bedtime stories for girlfriend

THERE we were dancing ‘up the steps of glory, my husband, Mackenzie, and me, our earthly troubles over, when who should we meet comin’ down but Nancy Smothers!

“That hussy!” I said. “How did she get up here?”

She had her white wings all folded around her, looking ‘just like an Easter lily. cept that her face was chocolate.”

Nancy Smothers, if you come a – near my husband, I’m gonna crown you!” I said. “I did stand enough from you down on earth, let alone meeting ‘you in heaven.”

All this while, Mackenzie ain’t said a word. Shamel, He knew he’s done wrong with that woman. Mackenzie lifted up his wings as if he was gonna fly, but I dared him!

“Don’t you lift a feather, your dog, you! just hold your horses! I’m gonna ask God how come this Harlem just got to heaven anyhow.”

Mackenzie and I went on up the golden stairs I could see him straining his eyeballs, trying ‘to look back without turning his head.

Nancy Smothers switched on down the steps. I reckon.

But I never did find out how she got in heaven because just then I come out from under the ether.

I looked up and saw a pretty white nurse standing there by my bed just like an angel. I hollered. Where is Mackenzie Washie hurt much, too? You know, he was driving when we hit that pole!

“The nurse said,” Don’t worry, madam Your husband’s all right He just got a broken arm when the car turned over. But he’ll be in to see you by and by them, re keeping ‘him in the men’s ward overnight.

“I’m glad he’s safe,” I said. “I am sure I am glad!”

Then the nurse said, “This lady’s been here with you a long time, sitting by your bed. An old friend of yours, she says. She brought you some flowers.”

So I turned my eyes and there sat Nancy Smothers, right beside my bed! Just as long-faced and hypocritical as she could be!

“Nancy,” I said, “where am 1 in heaven or in hell?”

“You still on earth, Amelia,” Nancy said sweetly, “and, honey, I just come from the men’s ward where I saw Mackenzie. He says to tell you he’s doing ‘well.”

Even with three broken ribs, I would have tried to kill Nancy that hussy, bringing me messages from my own Mackenzie but there was that nice white nurse standing beside me like an angel, and I always did hate to act up in front of white folks.

All I said was, “Nancy. I wish you’d been with us in that wreck! Then I coulda got some pleasure out of it. I’d just love to see you all crippled up”

Shh-ss-s!” said the nurse. “You’re weak! You mustn’t talk so loud!”

“You shouldn’t excite yourself. dear, “said Nancy, rising,” so. I’ll be going on home. I know you’re out of your head.

“I wish you d go to”

Shss-Shh-s-s! “said the nurse.

Then I realized I was starting to act up in front of that mee, sweet white nurse, so I tried to smile.” Goodbye. Nancy.”

She said Goodbye, Amelia. Her eyes gleaming ‘like a chess cat’s That shake Snake”

when the nurse took my temperature agam, she said.” That’s strang, udan Yrkan leve gone away up! “

“Strange: nothing thought to myself.”

But then how cold that pretty young nurse know I was layin there worry in myself to death about whether Nancy Smothers went home or not -or if the hussy went back in the men’s ward to set beside Mackenzie?

Love can be worse than hell.

2. Not Alone

I was 6 years old when I first heard about the imps. Every Tuesday night my grandfather used to come to our house for dinner, and each time he would bring me a bag of fresh mohn cookies from his bakery. I loved those cookies covered with hundreds of tiny poppy seeds, and if I exerted a little self-control. I could sometimes make them last for two or three days.

One Tuesday, however, my grandfather arrived without the cookies. Having come to expect them as part of his visit, I blurted out, “Where are my cookies?” He took a moment to answer and, in a tone much more solemn than usual. he said, “I put aside the best of them for you, but when I went to get them, they were gone. I guess the imps must have taken them.” My parents didn’t say anything, nor did I. I simply accepted his explanation. just as I accepted everything else he said, and that seemed to be the end of it.

But a few months later, when he came empty-handed again and said it was because of the imps. I said. “What imps? Not that I was unfamiliar with imps – or even demons, for that matter. After all, my grandfather had been telling me about them for years with stones about imps all the way from those who were no more than practical jokers to Asmexeus, the King of the Demons himself. But now it was different. They were beginning to direct my own life, for here I was. Once again deprived of my precious cookies.

My grandfather took me into the living room, and we sat together on the couch. “I’ll tell you about them.” He began. “You see, when I was a young man in Vilna, I apprenticed myself to Schlomo the baker. There was no better baker in the entire city. Everything I know I learned from him. After a while, he came to trust me completely. So I often found myself alone in the bakery late at night, getting everything ready for the next day.

“Well, one night these two characters appeared as if out of nowhere. They looked like everybody else except they were smaller, much smaller. Why they were no bigger than you. Grown men with beards but the size of children. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Who are we? “They said, laughing in squeaky voices. We are who we are, and we’ve come for bread.”

“I told them the bakery wasn’t open yet, but if they needed it right then, I could sell them a loaf.

“A loaf, a loaf, one of them chanted. Did you hear that? The fool says a loaf.

The other one joined in. ‘A loaf. a loaf is for people. We want 20 loaves.

“I was astonished. Twenty loaves! What do you want with 20 loaves?” I asked them. That was all I had baked. Besides. I told them it would cost a lot of money.

“Well, when they heard that, they began to giggle and sing. “Money, money -money is for fools. We never use money. We just want the bread.”

“I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. I just stood there like a dunce, staring at these two characters. Then they went to the bread rack and started stuffing the loaves under their arms. I tried to stop them. I had to. Schlomo trusted me, and the bakery was my responsibility. I grabbed the loaves from one and put them back on the rack, but as I was doing that, the other one was busy filling his arms. We went on like that for what seemed an eternity: grabbing them, grabbing me back. grabbing them again, until I was so exhausted. I couldn’t go on.

“Finally they helped themselves and left with their arms full. singing. “Money, money – money is for fools.

“Of course, when Schlomo came in just before dawn. I immediately told him what had happened. He slapped his forehead and groaned, “Oy gevalt! I should have told you about them. They come to the bakery every now and then, and I always let them have whatever they want. Sometimes I don’t see them for years. Sometimes they’re back in a week. It was that way in my father’s time, and it’s been that way ever since I’ve been here. My father told me they were imps and should never be questioned. Giving them what they want is much easier than not. I just hope you haven’t done something terrible. Who knows what will happen now?

“That’s what Schlomo told me,” my grandfather continued, but the fact is, nothing happened, at least not while I was there, And that was more than two years. Then I came here to America. I worked in other bakeries and saved my money until I had enough to open my own. That’s when I began to see them again.

“Actually. I didn’t really see them at first, but I knew they had followed me all the way across the ocean. All kinds of crazy things would happen. I’d be out front with a customer and suddenly there’d be a big crash from the back. A rack would be on the floor rolls scattered everywhere. Sometimes when I was in the middle of boiling bagels, the fire under the big copper kettle would just go out. And many times when I’d bake a special order, say, a cake for a bar mitzvah or a wedding, it would simply vanish. Poof! Just like that. I didn’t have to see them know they were there.

“After a while, they began to show their faces. It was them, all right, the same two. I’d see them going out the back door, loaded down with all kinds of stuff, or I’d hear them singing that same. the song they sang that night back in Vilna: ‘Money, money – money is for fools. “But they’ve never let me get close, and they’ve never spoken to me. I guess that’s what happened to your mohn cookies, “my grandfather concluded.

Of course, I took this to be the absolute truth. I never questioned any of my grandfather’s other stories. Why should I question this one? The presence of imps in his bakery seemed perfectly natural to me.

Much to my relief, they never came up again, because from that night on, whenever my grandfather came to visit, he always brought me a bag of mohn cookies. Even when he retired from baking and took to selling those little white labels that used to appear on loaves of rye and pumpernickel and challah, proclaiming that not only was this bread kosher but union-made as well, he never forgot the cookies.

Years later I was home from college and went to visit him. On the way to my uncle’s house, where he was living. I passed a Jewish bakery, and something made me stop. Inside all was familiar. There were the bread and rolls and pastries of my childhood, and there is one of the cases was a tray of mohn cookies. I bought a dozen and took them as a gift to my grandfather. As we were eating them along with our tea (mine his in a glass). I asked him what had happened to the imps.

“Ah,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye, “you remember them. Well, they kept up their tricks for years. I finally accepted what they did. It seemed to be my fate, and who am I to question mysteries I don’t understand? But one time – it happened when my helper was in the hospital for an operation of some kind or another, and I had to do everything alone – they began to come every night. ovens spoil batches of dough, tum over this and that, and of course, take whatever they pleased. I thought I’d go crazy.

“Enough is enough, and so one night I screamed at them,” Why do you torment me so? What I did in Vilna, I did. I was a young man. I didn’t know any better. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. ”

“Sorry, sorry. The fool says he’s sorry, ‘one of them sang. With that they dropped the rolls they were carrying and walked right up to me. Then they spoke to me for the first time in 35 years. They told me I’d made an awful mistake back there in Vilna. They said that imps don’t ask for very much, and it’s important that they be given what they do ask for. We humans must understand that we are not alone in this world. There are all kinds of creatures, and each has its own place and purpose. It’s not always given to us to understand what that might be, and for us to think we can have control over everything is pure foolishness. “The silly pride of people, the imps called it.”

They talked, and I listened, and when they finished, I promised to give them whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted it. I even told them Id bake special treats for them. And you know something? “My grandfather said with a laugh. “I never saw them again.”

3. The Boy By The Beach

There are in this small history some gaps that can never be filled up, but as much as I know I will tell you. The cottage where Kit lived until he was five years old stands at the head of a little beach of white shingle, just inside the harbor’s mouth, so that all day long Kit could see the merchant-ships trailing in from the sea, and passing up to the little town, or dropping down to the music of the capstan-song, and the calls and the creaking, as their crews hauled up the sails. Some came and went under bare poles in the wake of panting tugs, but those that carried canvas pleased Kit more. For a narrow coombe wound up behind the cottage, and down this coombe came not only the brook that splashed by the garden gate, but a small breeze, always blowing, so that you might count on seeing the white sails take it, and curve out as soon as ever they came opposite the cottage, and hold it until under the lee of the Battery Point.

Besides these delights, the cottage had a plantation of ash and hazel above it, that climbed straight tp the smooth turf and the four guns of the battery; and a garden with a tamarisk hedge, and a bed of white violets, the earliest for miles around, and a fuchsia-tree three times as tall as Kit, and a pink climbing rose that looked in at Kit’s window and blossomed till late in November. Here the child lived alone with his mother. For there was a vagueness of popular opinion respecting Kit’s father; while about his mother, unhappily, there was no vagueness at all. She was a handsome, low-browed woman, with a loud laugh, a defiant manner, and a dress of violet hues. Decent wives clutched their skirts in passing her: but she was on excellent terms with every sea captain and mate that put into the port. All these captains and mates knew Kit and made a pet of him: and indeed there was a curious charm in the great serious eyes and reddish curls of this child who .other children shunned. No one can tell if he felt his isolation but of course, it drove him to return the men’s friendship and to wear a man’s solemnity and habit of speech. The woman dressed him carefully, in glaring colors, out of her means: and as for his manners, they would no doubt have become false and absurd, as time went and knowledge came, but at the age of four they were those of a prince. “My father was a ship’s captain, too,” he would tell a new acquaintance, “ but he was drowned at sea oh, a long while ago years and years before I was born.”

At the beginning of this speech he had learned from his mother and the misty antiquity of the loss his own childish imagination suggested. The captains, hearing it, would wink at each other, swallow down their grins, and gravely inform him of the sights he would see and the lands he would visit when the time came for him, too, to be a ship’s captain. Often and often I have seen him perched, with his small legs dangling, on one of the green posts on the quay, and drinking in their talk of green icebergs, and flaming parrots, and pig-tailed Chinamen; of coral reefs of all marvelous colors, and suns that burnt men black, and monkeys that hung by their tails to the branches and pelted the passers-by with cocoanuts; and the rest of it. And the child would go back to the cottage in a waking dream, treading bright clouds of fancy, with a little box or knick-knacks in his hand, the gift of some tender-hearted ruffian. It was pitiful. Of course, he picked up their talk, and very soon could swear with equal and appalling freedom in English, French, Swedish, German, and Italian. But the words were words to him and no more, as he had no morals. Nice distinctions between good and evil never entered the little room where he slept to the sound only of the waves that curved around Battery Point and tumbled on the beach below. And I know that one summer evening, when the scandalized townsmen and their wedded wives assembled and marched down to the cottage with intent to lead the woman in a “ Ramriding,” the sight of Kit playing in the garden, and his look of innocent delight as he ran in to call his mother out, took the courage out of them and sent them home, up the hill, like sheep.

Of course, the truth must have come soon. But it never did for when he was just five, the woman took a chill and died.
She had left a little money; and the vicar, rather than let Kit go to the workhouse, spent it to buy the child admission to an orphanage in the Midlands, a hundred miles away.

So Kit hung the rose tree with little scraps of crape and was put, dazed and white, into a train and whisked a hundred miles off. And everybody forgot him.

Kit spent two years at the orphanage in an antique, preposterous suit snuff-colored coat with lappels, canary waistcoat, and corduroy small clothes. And they gave him his meals regularly. There were ninety-nine other boys who all throve on the food: but Kit pined. And the ninety-nine, being full of food, made a racket at times; but Kit found it quite deathly quiet, and his eyes wore a listening look.

For the truth was he missed the noise of the beach and was listening for it. And deep down in his small heart the sea was piping and calling to him. And the world had grown dumb; and he yearned always: until they had to get him a new canary waistcoat, the old one had grown too big.

One evening a lecture was given in the dining room of the Orphanage. The subject was “The Holy Land,” and the lecturer illustrated it with views from the magic lantern.

Kit, who sat in one of the back rows, was moderately excited at first. But the views of barren hills, and sands, and ruins, and palm-trees, and cedars, wearied him after a while. He had closed his eyes, and the lecturer’s voice became a sing-song in which his heart searched, as it always searched, for the music of the beach when by way of variety for it had little to do with the subject the lecturer slipped in a slide that was supposed to depict an incident on the homeward voyage a squall in the Mediterranean.

It was a stirring picture, with an inky sky, and the squall bursting from it and driving a small ship heeling over white-crested waves. Of course, the boys drew their breath.

And then something like a strangling sob broke out on the stillness, frightening the lecturer; and a shrill cry “Don’t go oh, damn it all! don’t go! Take me take me home! ”

And there at the back of the room, a small boy stood up on his form, and stretched out both hands to the painted ship, and shrieked and panted.

There was a blank silence, and then the matron hurried up, took him firmly in her arms, and carried him out.
“Don’t go oh, for the Lord Almighty’s sake, don’t go! ”

And as he was borne down the passages his cry sounded among the audience like the wail of a little lost soul.
The matron carried Kit to the sick-room and put him to bed. After quitting the child a bit she left him, taking away the candle. Now the sick-room was on the ground floor, and Kit lay still a very short while. Then he got out of bed, groped for his clothes, managed to dress, and, opening the window, escaped onto the lawn. Then he turned his face south-west, toward home and the sea and ran.

How could he tell where they lay? God knows. Ask the swallow how she can tell when in autumn the warm south is a fire in her brain. I believe that the sea’s breath was in the face of this child of seven, and its scent in his nostrils, and its voice in his ears, calling, summoning all the way. I only know that he ran straight toward his home, a hundred miles off, and that they found his canary waistcoat and snuff-colored coat in a ditch, two miles from the orphanage, due south-west.

Of his adventures on the road the story is equally silent, as I warned you. But the small figure comes into view again, a week later, on the hillside of the coombe above his home. And when he saw the sea and the white beach glittering beneath him, he did not stop, even for a moment, but reeled down the hill. The child was just a living skeleton; he had neither hat, coat, nor waistcoat; one foot only was shod, the other had worn through the stocking, and ugly red blisters showed on the sole as he ran. His face was far whiter than his shirt, save some ugly red scratches, and his gaunt eyes were full of hunger and yearning, and his lips happily babbling the curses that the ships’ captains had taught him.
He reeled down the hill to the cottage. The tenant was a newcomer to the town and had lately been appointed musky instructor to the battery above. He was in the garden pruning the rose tree but did not particularly notice the boy. And the boy passed without turning his head.

The tide on the beach was far out and just beginning to flow. There was the same dull plash on the pebbles, the same twinkle as the sun struck across the ripples. The sun was sinking; in ten minutes it would be behind the hill.

No one knows what the waves said to Kit. But he flung himself among them with a choking cry, and drank the brine and tossed it over his head and shoulders and chest, and lay down and let the small waves play over him, and cried and laughed aloud till the sun went down.

Then he clambered onto a rock, some way above them, and lay down to watch the water; and watching it, fell asleep; and sleeping had his wish, and went out to the wide seas.

4. Breakfast in Virginia Bedtime Stories For Girlfriend

Two colored boys during the war. For the first time in his life one of them, on furlough from a Southern training camp, was coming North. His best buddy was a New York lad, also on furlough, who had invited him to visit Harlem. Being colored, they had to travel in the Jim Crow car until the Florida Express reached Washington.

The train was crowded and people were standing in WHITE day coaches and in the COLORED coach the single Jim Crow car. Cor portal Ellis and Corporal Williams had, after much insistence, shared for a part of the night the seats of other kindly passengers in the coach marked COLORED. They took turns sleeping for a few hours. The rest of the time they sat on the arm of a seat or stood smoking in the vestibule. By morning they were very tired. And they were hungry.

No vendors came into the Jim Crow coach with food, so Corporal Ellis suggested to his friend that they go into the diner and have breakfast. Corporal Ellis was born in New York and he had been a star trackman with his college team and had often eaten in diners on trips with his teammates. Corporal Williams had never eaten in a diner before, but he followed his friend. It was midmorning. The rush period was over, although the dining car was still fairly full. But, fortunately, just at the door as they entered there were three seats at a table for four persons. The sole occupant of the table was a tall, distinguished gray-haired man. A white man.

As the two brown skin soldiers stood at the door waiting for the steward to seat them, the white man looked up and said, “Won’t you sit here and be my guests this morning? I have a son fighting in North Africa. Come, sit down. “

” Thank you, sir, “said Corporal Ellis,” this is kind of you. ” Corporal Ellis. This is Corporal Williams.

“The elderly man rose, gave his name, shook hands with the two-colored soldiers, and the three of them sat down at the table. The young men faced their host. Corporal Williams was silent, but Corporal Ellis carried on the conversation as they waited for the steward to bring the menus.

“How long have you been in the service, Corporal? “The white man was saying as the steward approached. Corporal Ellis could not answer this question because the steward cut in brusquely,” You boys can’t sit here. “

“These men are my guests for breakfast, steward, “said the white mari”

I am sorry, sir, “said the white steward,” but Negroes cannot be served now. If there’s time, we may have a fourth sitting before luncheon for them, if they want to come back. “

“But these men are soldiers, “said the white man.”

I am sorry, sir. We will take your order, but I cannot serve them in the state of Virginia.

“The two Negro soldiers were silent. The white man rose. He looked at the steward a minute, then said,” I am embarrassed, steward, both for you and for my guests. “To the soldiers he said.” IF you gentlemen will come with me to my drawing-room, we will have breakfast there. Steward. I would like a waiter immediately. Room E, the third car back.

“The tall, distinguished man turned and led the way out of the diner. The two soldiers followed him. They passed through the club car, through the open Pullmans, and into a coach made up entirely of compartments. The white man led them along with the blue-gray corridor, stopped at the last door, and opened it.

“Come in,” he said. He waited for the soldiers to enter.

It was a roomy compartment with a large window and two long comfortable seats facing each other. . The man indicated a place for the soldiers, who sat down together. He pressed a button.

“I will have the porter bring a table,” he said. Then he went on with the conversation just as if nothing had happened. He told them of recent letters from his son overseas, and of his pride in all the men in the military services who were giving up the pleasures of civilian life to help bring an end to Hitlerism. Shortly the porter arrived with the table. Soon a waiter spread a cloth and took their order. In a little while, the food was there.

All this time Corporal Williams from the South had said nothing. He sat, shy and bewildered, as the Virginia landscape passed outside the train window. Then he drank his orange juice with loud gulps. But when the eggs were brought, suddenly he spoke, “This here time, sir, is the first time I ever been invited to eat with a white man. I’m from Georgia.”

“I hope it won’t be the last time, “the white man replied. “Break ing bread together is the oldest symbol of human friendship.” He passed the silver tray. “Would you care for rolls or muffins, Corporal? I’m sorry there is no butter this morning. I guess we’re on rations.”

“I can eat without butter,” said the corporal for the first time his eyes met those of his host. He smiled. Through the window of the speeding train, as it neared Washington, clear in the morning sunlight yet far off in the distance, they could see the dome of the Capitol. But the soldier from the Deep South was not looking out of the window. He was looking across the table at his fellow American

“I thank you for this breakfast,” said Corporal Williams.

5. Story Of Vanka Zhukov cute bedtime stories for girlfriend

NINE-YEAR-OLD Vanka Zhukov, who was apprenticed three months ago to the shoemaker Alyakhin, did not go to bed on Christmas Eve He waited till the master and mistress and the more senior apprentices had gone to the early service, and then he took a bottle of ink and nib from his master’s cupboard, and began to write on a crumpled sheet of paper spread out in front of him. Before tracing the shape of the first letter, he looked several times fearfully in the direction of the doors and windows, and then he gazed up at the dark icon, flanked on either side by shelves filled with cobbler’s lasts, and then he heaved a broken sigh. With the paper spread over the bench, Vanka knelt on the floor beside it.

“Dear Grandfather Konstantin Makarich,” he wrote “I am writing a letter to you. I wish you a Merry Christmas and all good things from the Lord God. I have no father and mother, and you are all I have left.”

Vanka raised his eyes to the dark windowpane, on which there gleamed the reflection of a candle flame, and in his vivid imagination, he saw his grandfather Konstantin Makarich standing there. His grandfather was a night watchman on the estate of some gentlefolk called Zhivaryov, a small, thin, unusually lively and nimble old man of about sixty-five, his face always crinkling with laughter, and his eyes bleary from drink. In the daytime the old man slept in the servants’ kitchen or cracked jokes with the cooks. At night, wrapped in an ample sheepskin coat, he made the rounds of the estate, shaking his clapper. Two dogs followed him with drooping heads one was the old bitch Brownie, the other was called Eel because of his black coat and long weaselly body. Eel always seemed to be extraordinarily respectful and endearing, gazing with the same fond eyes on friends and strangers alike yet no one trusted him. His deference and humility concealed most Jesuitical malice. No one knew better how to creep stealthily behind someone and take a nip at his leg, or how to crawl into the icehouse, or how to scamper off with a peasant’s chicken. More than once they just about broke his hind legs, twice a noose was put around his neck, and every week he was beaten until he was only half alive, yet he always managed to survive.

At this very moment, Grandfather was probably standing by the gates, screwing up his eyes at the bright red windows of the village church, stamping about in his felt boots and cracking jokes with the servants. His clapper hung from his belt. He would be throwing out his arms and then hugging himself against the cold, and, hiccupping as old men do, he would be pinching one of the servant girls or one of the cooks.

“What about a pinch of snuff, eh?” He would say, holding out his snuftbox to the women.

Then the women would take a pinch and sneeze, and the old man would be overcome with indescribable ecstasies, laughing joyously and exclaiming: ” Fine for frozen noses, eh! “

The dogs, too, were given snuff. Brownie would sneeze, shake her head, and walk away looking angry, while Eel, too polite to sneeze, only wagged his tail. The weather was glorious. The air was still, transparently clear, and fresh. The night was very dark, but the whole white – roofed village with its snowdrifts and trees silvered with hoar frost and smoke streaming from the chimneys could be seen clearly. The heavens were sprinkled with gay, glinting stars, and the Milky Way stood out as clearly as if it had been washed and scrubbed with snow for the holidays.

Vanka sighed, dipped his pen in the ink, and went on writing: “Yesterday I was given a thrashing.” The master dragged me by the hair into the yard and gave me a beating with a stirrup strap because when I was rocking the baby in the cradle, I, unfortunately, fell asleep.

Because I began with the tail, she took the head of the herring and rubbed it all over my face. The other apprentices made fun of me, sent me to the tavern for vodka, and made me steal the master’s cucumbers for them, and then the master beat me with the first thing that came to hand. And there’s nothing to eat. In the morning they give me bread, there is porridge for dinner, and in the evening only bread again. They never give me tea or cabbage soup they gobble it all up themselves. They make me sleep in the passageway, and when their baby cries, I don’t get any sleep at all because I have to rock the cradle. Dear Grandfather, please for God’s sake take me away from here, take me to the village, it’s more than I can bear … I kneel down before you I’ll pray to God to keep you forever, but take me away from here, or I shall die.

“Vanka grimaced, rubbed his eyes with his black fists, and sobbed.

I’ll grind your snuff for you,” he went on “I will pray to God to keep you, and if I ever do anything wrong, you can flog me all you like. If you think there’s no place for me, then I’ll ask the manager for Christ’s sake to let me clean boots or take Fedya’s place as a shepherd boy. Dear Grandfather, it’s more than I can bear, it will be the death of me. I thought of running away to the village, but I haven’t any boors, and I am afraid of the ice. If you’ll do this for me, I’ll feed you when I grow up, and won’t let anyone harm you, and when you die, I’ll pray for the repose of your soul, just like I do for my mother, Pelageya.

“Moscow is such a big city. There are so many houses belonging to the gentry, so many horses, but no sheep anywhere, and the dogs are not vicious. The boys don’t go about with the Star of Christmas, and they don’t let you sing in the choir, and once I saw fishhooks in the shop window with the fishing lines for every kind of fish, very fine ones, even one hook which would hold a skate fish weighing forty pounds. I’ve seen shops selling guns which are just like the master’s at home, and each one must cost a hundred rubles. In the butcher shops they have woodcocks and partridges and hares, but the people in the shop won’t tell you where they were shot.

“Dear Grandfather, when they put up the Christmas tree at the big house, please take down a golden walnut for me and hide it in the green chest. Ask the young mistress, Olga Ignatyevna, and say it is for Vanka.

“Vanka heaved a convulsive sigh, and once more he gazed in the direction of the window. He remembered it was Grandfather who always went to the forest to cut down a Christmas tree for the gentry, taking his grandson with him. They had a wonderful time together. Grandfather chuckled, the frost crackled, and Vanka, not to be our doing, clucked away cheerfully. Before chopping down the fir tree, Grandfather would smoke a pipe, take a long pinch of snuff, and make fun of Vanka, who was shivering in the cold. The young fir trees, garlanded with hoarfrost, stood perfectly still, waiting to see which of them would die Suddenly out of nowhere a hare came springing across the snowdrifts, quick as an arrow, and Grandfather would be unable to prevent himself from shouting: “Hold him! Hold him! Hold that bobtailed devil, ch!

“When the tree had been chopped down, Grandfather would drag it to the big house and they would start decorating it. The young mistress. Olga Ignatyevna, Vanka’s favorite, was the busiest of all While Vanka’s mother, Pelageya, was alive, serving as a chambers Olga Ignatyevna used to stuff him with sugar candy, and it amused her to teach him to read and write, to count up to a hundred, and even to dance the quadrille. But when Pelageya died, they relegated the orphan Vanka to the servants’ kitchen to be with his grandfather, and from there he went to Moscow to the shoemaker Alyakhin …

“Come to me, dear Grandfather,” Vanka went on. “I beseech you for Christ’s sake, take me away from here! Have pity on me, a poor orphan, they are always beating me, and I’m terribly hungry, and so miserable I can’t tell you, and I’m always crying. The other day the master hit me on the head with a last, and I fell down and thought I would never get up again. It’s worse than a dog’s life and so miserable. I send greetings to Alyona, to one-eyed Yegor, and to the coachman, and don’t give my harmonica away. I remain your grandson Ivan Zhukov, dear grandfather, and come soon!

“Vanka twice folded the sheet of paper and then he put it in an envelope bought the previous day for a kopeck. He reflected for a while, dipped the pen in ink, and wrote the address: To Grandfather in the Village. Then he scratched his head and thought for a while, and added the words: Konstantin Makarich. Pleased because no one interrupted him when he was writing, he threw on his cap, and without troubling to put on a coat, he ran out into the street in his shirt sleeves.

When he talked to the clerks in the butcher shop the previous day, they told him that the letters were dropped in boxes, and from these boxes, they were carried all over the world on mail coaches drawn by three horses and driven by drunken drivers, while the bells jingled. Vanka ran to the nearest mailbox and thrust his precious letter into the slot.

An hour later, lulled by sweetest hopes, he was fast asleep. He dreamed of a stove. His grandfather was sitting on the stove, bare feet dangling down, while he read the letter aloud to the cooks. Eel was walking round the stove, wagging his tail.

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