people who die at the end are those who died
at the beginning.

Fully worthy of such a marvellous nation
were two Tadibes, or conjurors, the heroes of
another tale, who quarrelled on the subject of
their skill. "You call yourself a Tadibe?" said
the first speaker. "Why, the man is not worthy
the name of Tadibe who can't balance the moon
on the palm of his hand."

"You can't do that yourself," sneered the
other; but his sneer was soon exchanged for a
cry of wonder, when the moon came tumbling
down and settled on the extended palm. The
feat was, however, less agreeable than surprising,
for the presence of the moon made the tent in
which the disputants stood so exceedingly cold,
that all the listeners heaped fresh fuel on the
fire, wrapped themselves up in their thickest furs,
and went on shivering still, till at last the
defeated Tadibe implored the conqueror to send
back the moon to its proper place.

His request was good-humouredly granted;
but no sooner was the moon gone than he
began to renew his boasts that he was the better
man of the two. By way of refuting the idle
vaunt, the charmer of the moon now brought
down the sun, which made the tent so dreadfully
hot that the dismissal of the larger luminary
was urgently requested by the defeated boaster.
The sun went up again, but as the conjuror who
had done nothing still looked doubtful, the victor
proposed that they should both turn themselves
into geese, and in that new form make a
trial of skill. The transformation being effected,
they flew a long way, till at last they came to a
river, where geese were abundant, and very
sensible geese too, although they had not, like their
visitors, been conjurors, for every one of them
in turn acted as sentinel at night to guard the
commonweal from danger. One night, when
the less skilful conjuror, still with his "goose-
look," was on duty, a Samoyede, with a three-
legged dog, made his appearance, and committed
terrible depredations. Not only did the hideous
animal kill a great number of the base herd, but
he caught the inferior conjuror by the beak
three times, and three times was the better
Tadibe forced to rescue his dull comrade. The
usual stratagem of the geese, when pursued by
dogs, was to duck under the water, but soon the
flock found itself hunted into such a shallow
part of the stream that ducking was utterly
impossible. So the two conjurors (the stupid at
the suggestion of the sharp) waddled on to the
beach, and, making straight for the sea, swam
to an island, where the inferior Tadibe devoured
grass, while the better one nibbled moss. The
grass-eater expatiated much on the superiority
of his diet, showing how much it increased the
size of his wings, and explaining how soon it
would enable him to fly away. The wings of
the better Tadibe did not grow, but he nevertheless
went on eating his moss, without deigning
a reply to the observations of his comrade. At
last the stupid goose, finding that his wings had
attained their proper growth, flew to another
island, where he amused himself by changing
into a duck, in which character he was soon
knocked on the head by some idle children. As
for the wiser goose, he betook himself to grass
as soon as the blunderer had departed, till his
wings were fully grown, and then judiciously flew
home, when, resuming his proper form, he lived
as a respectable member of Samoyede society.

Striking is the contrast between the mild wisdom
of this moon-snatching, sun-catching, goosy
sage, and the vicious cunning of an abominable
old man, who figures in a third story, and who, in
violation of every principle of dramatic justice,
thrives uncommonly by his very wickedness.

First we find this Old Man living with his
wife in a state of extreme poverty on the
banks of a river. They are the only Samoyedes
in the district; higher up the river are the huts
of the Ostjaks, another branch of the large Altaic
family, less nomadic than the Samoyedes. Of all
their property, nothing is left but a hatchet, and
it is in a desperate mood that the Old Man goes
out one night a bird-hunting. The ptarmigans,
finding that he is disposed to throw sticks at
them, dissuade him from this useless slaughter,
and advise him to go home and murder his wife
as the best method of escaping from his present
poverty. The evil counsel is readily followed,
but the poor old dame is no sooner slain with
the hatchet, than the murderer sets up a wail of
grief, and laments his former happiness. All
night he weeps bitterly, but his tears do not
wash away his wits, and at dawn of day he sets
his deceased wife in a dog-sledge, just as if she
were alive, and proceeds down the river till he
arrives at an Ostjak village. Taking care to
leave his sledge close by a hole in the ice, he pays
a visit to the chief of the village, and when he
has been amply fed, observes with great coolness
that his wife is outside, and probably feels
the cold. The Ostjak chief, like a fine hospitable
fellow, orders his two daughters to fetch
in the old lady, and so zealous are they in
attempting to move the sledge, that the corpse
soon topples over, and tumbles into the hole.
Hereupon the good girls run home with a long
face, and ruefully report that the old lady is
drowned. Long poles are poked into the ice by
orders of the excellent chief, but the body is
beyond their reach.

The old sinner takes up his abode with the
chief, but so incessantly does he weep for the
loss of his wife, that the mirth-loving Ostjak at
last thinks his grief an intolerable nuisance, and
gives him the hand of his eldest daughter, with
a separate hut, to put an end to it. A son is the
result of this happy union, and on the occasion
of his birth a grand festival is held, at which all
the Ostjaks get drunk, while the cool-headed old
Samoyede remains sober, and indulges in vile
reflections after this fashion:

"A miserable set of wretches these are; I
drank as much as they did, and yet I am firm on
my legs, while these are all lying here. I'm not
so very good; I killed my wife, and yet I'm a
better man than all these put together. Indeed,
since I killed my wife I've been more prosperous
than ever."