You must not think she leaves handsome gifts such as Santa Klaus
brings for you. She does not bring bicycles to the boys or
French dolls to the girls. She does not come in a gay little
sleigh drawn by reindeer, but hobbling along on foot, and she
leans on a crutch. She has her old apron filled with candy and
cheap toys, and the children all love her dearly. They watch to
see her come, and when one hears a rustling, he cries, "Lo! the
Babouscka!" then all others look, but one must turn one's head
very quickly or she vanishes. I never saw her myself.
Best of all, she loves little babies, and often, when the tired
mothers sleep, she bends over their cradles, puts her brown,
wrinkled face close down to the pillow and looks very sharply.
What is she looking for?
Ah, that you can't guess unless you know her sad story.
Long, long ago, a great many yesterdays ago, the Babouscka, who
was even then an old woman, was busy sweeping her little hut.
She lived in the coldest corner of cold Russia, and she lived
alone in a lonely place where four wide roads met. These roads
were at this time white with snow, for it was winter time. In
the summer, when the fields were full of flowers and the air full
of sunshine and singing birds, Babouscka's home did not seem so
very quiet; but in the winter, with only the snowflakes and the
shy snow-birds and the loud wind for company, the little old
woman felt very cheerless. But she was a busy old woman, and as
it was already twilight, and her home but half swept, she felt in
a great hurry to finish her work before bedtime.
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