mentioned, and one of whose Tales you have already read, I think, came from Poltava, bringing with him a little book, and, opening it in the middle, shows it to us. Thoma Grigorovitch was on the point of setting his spectacles astride of his nose, but recollected that he had forgotten to wind thread about them, and stick them together with wax, so he passed it over to me. As I understand something about reading and writing, and do not wear spectacles, I undertook to read it. I had not turned two leaves, when all at once he caught me by the hand, and stopped me.
"Stop! tell me first what you are reading."
I confess that I was a trifle stunned by such a question.
"What! what am I reading, Thoma Grigorovitch? These were your very words."
"Who told you that they were my words?"
"Why, what more would you have? Here it is printed: Related by such and such a sacristan."
"Spit on the head of the man who printed that! he lies, the dog of a Moscow pedlar! Did I say that? 'Twas just the same as though one had n't his wits about him Listen. I'll tell it to you on the spot."
We moved up to the table, and he began.
My grandfather (the kingdom of heaven be his! may he eat only wheaten rolls and makovniki[1]
- ↑ Poppy-seeds cooked in honey, and dried in square cakes.
