The time of fly-flappers was ended, but with it our manuscript had also gone to ruin.
Never was any loss more severe for me to bear than that of those three written sheets. I was in despair.
Wringing my hands, I went to work to rewrite the story, but I could not forget the loss of it, and involuntarily I kept heaping reproaches on the teacher, and the manufacturers of the fly-flappers.
Here I cannot resist observing in this connection that as the result of this external disorder and perfect freedom among the scholars, which have furnished decorous amusement for Mr. Markof, in the Russian Messenger, and Mr. Glyebof, in the journal Education, without the slightest trouble, and without having to use threats or cunning, I learned all the details of the complicated history of the manuscript turned into fly-flappers, and of its cremation.
Semka and Fedka saw that I was disturbed, and though, evidently, they did not know the reason, they seemed to be very sympathetic; Fedka at last timidly proposed to me to rewrite the story.
"By yourselves?" I asked; "I cannot help any in it."
"Semka and I will come and spend the night at your house," replied Fedka.
And indeed, after the lessons, they came to my house about nine o'clock and locked themselves in my library. I was not a little delighted that after some giggling, they became quiet, and at twelve o'clock when I went to the door, I heard merely their low conversation and the scratching of the pen. Only once they asked me about something that had been in the former copy, and wanted my opinion on the question,—Had the peasant hunted for his wallet before or after his wife went to the neighbor's?
I told them it made no difference.
At twelve o'clock I tapped at the door and went in.
Fedka, in a new white shubka with black fur trimming, was sitting buried in the easy-chair, with his legs crossed and his bushy little head resting on one hand, while his other played with the scissors. His big black
