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This is a book written far away in Russia, for English children who play in deep lanes with wild roses above them in the high hedges, or by the small singing becks that dance down the gray fells at home.
Russian fairyland is quite different. Under my windows the wavelets of the Volkhov (which has its part in one of the stories) are beating quietly in the dusk. A gold light burns on a timber raft floating down the river. Beyond the river in the blue midsummer twilight are the broad Russian plain and the distant forest.
Somewhere in that forest of great trees -- a forest so big that the forests of England are little woods beside it -- is the hut where old Peter sits at night and tells these stories to his grandchildren. | 
