"I don't know myself."
"And yet you say the same as the others!"
"And why should I not say it?" replied grandmother, calmly. "You must not be offended. You are young; you are not expected to know. And who does know, after all? Only rogues. Look at your grandfather. Clever and well educated as he is, yet he does not know."
"And you—have you managed your life well?"
"I? Yes. And badly also; all ways."
People sauntered past us, with their long shadows following them. The dust rose like smoke under their feet, burying those shadows. Then the evening sadness became more oppressive. The sound of grandfather's grumbling voice flowed from the window:
"Lord, in Thy wrath do not condemn me, nor in Thy rage punish me!"
Grandmother said, smiling:
"He has made God tired of him. Every evening he has his tale of woe, and about what? He is old now, and he does not need anything; yet he is always complaining and working himself into a frenzy about something. I expect God laughs when He hears his voice in the evening. There's Vassili Kashirin grumbling again!' Come and go to bed now." . . . . . . . .
I made up my mind to take up the occupation of catching singing-birds. I thought it would be a good way of earning a living. I would catch them, and grandmother would sell them. I bought a net, a hoop, and a trap, and made a cage. At dawn I took my place in a hollow among the bushes, while grandmother went in the woods with a basket and a bag to find the last mushrooms, bulbs, and nuts.