me, but beginning with the third line, the ends of the verses began to turn upwards more and more, so that one could see, even from a distance, that they were written crooked, and that they were not good for anything.
The third sheet was just as crooked as the other two, but I decided not to copy it again. In my poem I congratulated grandmother, and wished her to live long, and finished as follows:
And will love you like our own mother.
It did not look so bad, after all, only the last verse strangely offended my ear.
"And will love you like our own mother," mumbled I.
"What other rhyme could I get for mother? other? smother? Oh, well, it will pass anyway; it is not worse than the verses of Karl Ivánovich."
I wrote down the last verse. Then I read aloud my production, with feeling and expression, in the sleeping-room. There were lines without any measure, and that did not disconcert me; but the last verse struck me more unpleasantly still. I sat down on my bed, and fell to musing.
"Why did I write like our own mother? She was not here, so I ought not even to have mentioned her. It is true, I love grandmother, and I respect her, but still, it is not the same — why did I write that, why did I lie? To be sure this was a poem, still I ought not to have done so."
Just then the tailor entered, and brought the new half-frock coats.
"Well, it will have to remain that way!" said I, in great impatience, as I angrily shoved the poem under the pillow, and ran away to try on the Moscow clothes.
The Moscow clothes turned out to be a fine affair: the
