"'It's no use talking—it's splendid lumber.'"
How simple! how little is said, yet it gives you the perspective of their whole family life. You see that the lad is still only a child, who one moment is weeping, and the next happy; you see that the lad cannot appreciate his mother's love, and instantly prefers his virile father, who can split the log; you see that his mother knows that this must be so, and is not jealous; you see that marvelous Gordyeï, whose happiness has filled his heart to overflowing. You remark how they eat the meat; and this charming comedy, which they all play and all know it is a comedy, but they play it out of excess of joy.
"Don't whip Fedya! Don't whip Fedya!" says the father, waving his arms. And the mother, accustomed to real tears, pretends to cry, joyously smiling at her husband and at her son, and this lad who climbs up on his father's knee is proud and glad, not knowing why—proud and glad perhaps because they are happy now.
"Then father sat down to table, placed me next him, and cried:—
"'Give me and Fedya something to eat, mother—we are hungry.'"
We are hungry, and he sits him next him! What love and happy pride of love breathes in those words! There is nothing in the whole charming tale more charming, more sincere, than this last scene.
But what do we mean by all this? What significance has this story in reference to pedagogy, written by one possibly exceptional lad? They will say to us:—
"Maybe you, the teacher, assisted him unconsciously in the composition of these and the other tales, and it is too difficult to mark the division between what belongs to you and what was original."
They will say to us:—
"Let us grant the story is good, but this is only one of the styles of literature." They will say to us:—
"Fedka and the other boys, whose compositions you print, are fortunate exceptions."
