The old fellow seemed to like the lines, for he sang them over several times, as he went on with his whittling. Just as he was about to make a new start on his "Zvœri raboti," a boy, about fifteen years old, came out of the house which stood by the side of the garden, and walked toward him.
"Nicolai Petrovitch," said the boy, sitting down on a wheelbarrow, which was turned over in front of the gardener, "why is it that you are so fond of singing that song? One might suppose you are lazy, but we know very well you are not. And then, too, there is no sense in it. Birds don't work, to be sure, but what have you to say about horses and oxen? I'm sure they work hard enough—at least, some of them."
"Martin Ivanovitch," said the old man, as he took up the rake and tried the new tooth, to see if it would fit in the hole, "this stick will have to be cut down a good deal more; it is hard wood. What you say about the beasts is very true. But I like that song."

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