He suddenly sat straight up, drew his legs in, and, looking steadily at one point, he said, quickly, with a serious, important air:——
"Men, well fed and richly dressed
Pass through the streets all day,
But if I beg a bit of bread
They answer—go away!"
He stopped, looked at the other two, and hung his head down. For a minute they all stared in an embarrassed silence, then Ilya asked, hesitatingly:——
"Is that poetry?"
"Can't you hear?" replied Pashka, crossly. "It rhymes—day, away—so of course it's poetry."
"Of course," chimed in Jakov, quickly. "You're always finding fault, Ilya."
"I've made more poetry than that!" Pashka turned to Jakov and went on again:——
"The earth is wet and the clouds are grey,
The autumn draws nearer, day by day,
And I—have no house for the winter's cold
And my clothes are tattered and worn and old."
"Ah!" said Jakov, and looked at Pashka with round eyes.
"That was regular poetry," admitted Ilya.