Now, why should that be?
Why should not a beast be born as a bird is born--that is to say, through the process of being hatched from an egg?
Nature is beyond the understanding, however much one may probe her." This was the substance of Kifa Mokievitch's reflections.

But herein is not the chief point.
The other of the pair was a fellow named Mofi Kifovitch, and son to the first named.

He was what we Russians call a "hero," and while his father was pondering the parturition of beasts, his, the son's, lusty, twenty-year-old temperament was violently struggling for development.
Yet that son could tackle nothing without some accident occurring.

At one moment would he crack some one's fingers in half, and at another would he raise a bump on somebody's nose; so that both at home and abroad every one and everything--from the serving-maid to the yard-dog--fled on his approach, and even the bed in his bedroom became shattered to splinters.

Such was Mofi Kifovitch; and with it all he had a kindly soul.