the snow."

"I know it," replied Dobrunka, sadly; "but my mother and sister will
beat me to a jelly if I do not bring them some. My good sirs, please
to tell me where I can find them."

Old January rose and, turning to a man in a golden mantle, he put his
staff in his hand, saying, "Brother June, this is your business."

June rose in turn, and stirred the fire with the staff, when, behold!
the flames rose, the snow melted, the earth grew green, the trees were
covered with leaves, the birds sang and the flowers opened--it was
summer. Thousands of little white stars enameled the turf, then turned
to red strawberries, looking, in their green cups, like rubies set in
emeralds.

"Make haste, my child, and gather your strawberries," said June.

Dobrunka filled her apron, thanked the Twelve Months, and joyfully
ran home. You may imagine the astonishment of Katinka and the
stepmother. The fragrance of the strawberries filled the whole house.

"Where did you find these things?" asked Katinka, in a disdainful
voice.

"Up yonder on the mountain," answered her sister; "there were so many
of them that they looked like blood poured on the ground."

Katinka and her mother devoured the strawberries without even thanking
the poor child.

The third day the wicked sister took a fancy for some red apples. The
same threats, the same insults, and the same violence followed.
Dobrunka ran to the mountain, and was fortunate enough to find the
Twelve Months warming themselves, motionless and silent.

"You here again, my child?" said old January, making room for her by
the fire. Dobrunka told him, with tears, how, if she did not bring
home some red apples, her mother and sister would beat her to death.

Old January repeated the ceremonies of the day before. "Brother
September," said he to a gray-bearded man in a purple mantle, "this is
your business."

September rose and stirred the fire with the staff, when, behold! the
flames ascended, the snow melted, and the trees put forth a few yellow
leaves, which fell one by one before the wind--it was autumn. The only
flowers were a few late pinks, daisies, and immortelles. Dobrunka saw
but one thing, an apple-tree with its rosy fruit.

"Make haste, my child; shake the tree," said September.

She shook it, and an apple fell; she shook it again, and a second
apple followed.

"Make haste, Dobrunka, make haste home!" cried September, in an
imperious voice.

The good child thanked the T