“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. It may not be altogether true, but it is poetry, and it pleases me.”
“You like poetry, don’t you?” said Martin.
“Yes, indeed, little Martin, I like poetry. If it had been possible, I should have been a poet myself. I often think very good poetry, but as I cannot read or write, there is no sense in my trying to make use of any of it.”
“But how did you learn to like poetry, as you cannot read?” asked Martin.
“Oh! I heard a great deal of very good poetry when I was a young man, and then I learned to like it. And I remembered almost all I heard. Now, my daughter Axinia reads poetry to me every Sunday, but I do not remember it so well.”
“What kind of poetry suits you best?” asked the boy, who seemed to be tired of studying, or working, or perhaps playing, and therefore glad to have a quiet talk with the old man.
“I like all kinds, Martin Ivanovitch. I used to sing a great deal, and then I liked songs best. I think you have heard me sing some of my good songs.”
“Oh yes!” said Martin, “I remember that song about the young shepherdess, who wanted to give her sweetheart something; and she could not give him her dog, because she needed him, nor her crook, because her father had given it to her, nor one of her lambs, because they all belonged to her mother, who counted them every day, and so she gave him her heart.”
“Yes, yes,” said old Nicolai, smiling; “I like that song best of all. I should be proud to have written such poetry as that. He must have been a great poet who wrote that. But I do not hear many songs now. My little Axinia is reading me a long poem. It is called the ‘Dushenka.’ Perhaps you have heard of it?”
“Oh yes!” said Martin.