What Happened To Bulka In Pyatigorsk

: STORIES FOR CHILDREN
: Fables For Children, Stories For Children, Natural Science Stori

From the Cossack village I did not travel directly to Russia, but first

to Pyatigorsk, where I stayed two months. Milton I gave away to a

Cossack hunter, and Bulka I took along with me to Pyatigorsk.



Pyatigorsk [in English, Five-Mountains] is called so because it is

situated on Mount Besh-tau. And besh means in Tartar "five," and tau

"mountain." From this mountain flows a hot sulphur stream. It is as hot

s boiling water, and over the spot where the water flows from the

mountain there is always a steam as from a samovar.



The whole place, on which the city stands, is very cheerful. From the

mountain flow the hot springs, and at the foot of the mountain is the

river Podkumok. On the slopes of the mountain are forests; all around

the city are fields, and in the distance are seen the mountains of the

Caucasus. On these the snow never melts, and they are always as white as

sugar. One large mountain, Elbrus, is like a white loaf of sugar; it can

be seen from everywhere when the weather is clear. People come to the

hot springs to be cured, and over them there are arbours and awnings,

and all around them are gardens with walks. In the morning the music

plays, and people drink the water, or bathe, or stroll about.



The city itself is on the mountain, but at the foot of it there is a

suburb. I lived in that suburb in a small house. The house stood in a

yard, and before the windows was a small garden, and in the garden stood

the landlord's beehives, not in hollow stems, as in Russia, but in

round, plaited baskets. The bees are there so gentle that in the morning

I used to sit with Bulka in that garden, amongst the beehives.



Bulka walked about between the hives, and sniffed, and listened to the

bees' buzzing; he walked so softly among them that he did not interfere

with them, and they did not bother him.



One morning I returned home from the waters, and sat down in the garden

to drink coffee. Bulka began to scratch himself behind his ears, and

made a grating noise with his collar. The noise worried the bees, and so

I took the collar off. A little while later I heard a strange and

terrible noise coming from the city. The dogs barked, howled, and

whimpered, people shouted, and the noise descended lower from the

mountain and came nearer and nearer to our suburb.



Bulka stopped scratching himself, put his broad head with its white

teeth between his fore legs, stuck out his tongue as he wished, and lay

quietly by my side. When he heard the noise he seemed to understand what

it was. He pricked his ears, showed his teeth, jumped up, and began to

snarl. The noise came nearer. It sounded as though all the dogs of the

city were howling, whimpering, and barking. I went to the gate to see

what it was, and my landlady came out, too. I asked her:



"What is this?"



She said:



"The prisoners of the jail are coming down to kill the dogs. The dogs

have been breeding so much that the city authorities have ordered all

the dogs in the city to be killed."



"So they would kill Bulka, too, if they caught him?"



"No, they are not allowed to kill dogs with collars."



Just as I was speaking, the prisoners were coming up to our house. In

front walked the soldiers, and behind them four prisoners in chains. Two

of the prisoners had in their hands long iron hooks, and two had clubs.

In front of our house, one of the prisoners caught a watch-dog with his

hook and pulled it up to the middle of the street, and another began to

strike it with the club.



The little dog whined dreadfully, but the prisoners shouted and laughed.

The prisoner with the hook turned over the dog, and when he saw that it

was dead, he pulled out the hook and looked around for other dogs.



Just then Bulka rushed headlong at that prisoner, as though he were a

bear. I happened to think that he was without his collar, so I shouted:

"Bulka, back!" and told the prisoners not to strike the dog. But the

prisoner laughed when he saw Bulka, and with his hook nimbly struck him

and caught him by his thigh. Bulka tried to get away; but the prisoner

pulled him up toward him and told the other prisoner to strike him. The

other raised his club, and Bulka would have been killed, but he jerked,

and broke the skin at the thigh and, taking his tail between his legs,

flew, with the red sore on his body, through the gate and into the

house, and hid himself under my bed.



He was saved because the skin had broken in the spot where the hook

was.



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