'Where is Zolotonosha?' asked one of the boys suddenly of Bassistoff.

'In the province of Poltava, my dear boy,' replied Pigasov, 'in the
centre of Little Russia.' (He was glad of an opportunity of changing
the conversation.) 'We were talking of literature,' he continued, 'if
I had money to spare, I would at once become a Little Russian poet'

'What next? a fine poet you would make!' retorted Darya Mihailovna.
'Do you know Little Russian?'

'Not a bit; but it isn't necessary.'

'Not necessary?'

'Oh no, it's not necessary. You need only take a sheet of paper and
write at the top "A Ballad," then begin like this, "Heigho, alack,
my destiny!" or "the Cossack Nalivaiko was sitting on a hill and then
on the mountain, under the green tree the birds are singing, grae,
voropae, gop, gop!" or something of that kind. And the thing's done.
Print it and publish it. The Little Russian will read it, drop his
head into his hands and infallibly burst into tears--he is such a
sensitive soul!'

'Good heavens!' cried Bassistoff. 'What are you saying? It's too
absurd for anything. I have lived in Little Russia, I love it and know
the language . . . "grae, grae, voropae" is absolute nonsense.'

'It may be, but the Little Russian will weep all the same. You speak
of the "language." . . . But is there a Little Russian language? Is it