Then I was the dog-beater.
. . . . .
It was all about two little birds—two tiny little birds that two boys, one big and one small, had killed. When the two little birds dropped from the tree they were still alive. Their feathers were ruffled. They fluttered their wings, and trembled in every limb.
"Get up, you hedgehog," said the big boy to the small boy. And they took the little birds in their hands and beat their heads against the tree-trunk, until they died.
I could not contain myself, but ran over to the two boys.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"What's that to do with you?" they demanded in Russian. "What harm is it?" they asked calmly. "They are no more than birds, ordinary little birds."
"And if they are only birds? Have you no pity for the living—no mercy for the little birds?"
The boys looked curiously at one another, and as if they had already made up their minds in advance to do it, they at once fell upon me.
When I came home, my torn jacket told the story, and my father gave me the good beating I deserved.