one can't keep up with him. I will get into his stacks now and rot them.'
So the imp entered the rye, and crept among the sheaves, and they began to rot. He heated them, grew warm himself, and fell asleep.
Iván harnessed the mare, and went with the lass to cart the rye. He came to the heaps, and began to pitch the rye into the cart. He tossed two sheaves and again thrust his fork—right into the imp's back. He lifts the fork and sees on the prongs a live imp; dock-tailed, struggling, wriggling, and trying to jump.
'What, you nasty thing, are you here again?'
'I'm another,' said the imp. 'The first was my brother. I've been with your brother Simon.'
'Well,' said Iván, 'whoever you are, you've met the same fate!'
He was about to dash him against the cart, but the imp cried out: 'Let me off, and I will not only let you alone, but I'll do anything you tell me to do.'
'What can you do?'
'I can make soldiers out of anything you like.'
'But what use are they?'
'You can turn them to any use; they can do anything you please.'
'Can they sing?'
'Yes, if you want them to.'
'All right; you may make me some.'
And the imp said, 'Here, take a sheaf of rye, then bump it upright on the ground, and simply say:
'O sheaf! my slave
This order gave:
Where a straw has been
Let a soldier be seen!'
Iván took the sheaf, struck it on the ground, and said what the imp had told him to. The sheaf fell asunder, and all the straws changed into soldiers, with a trumpeter and a drummer playing in front, so that there was a whole regiment.
