“What poetry, oh, my darling, my darling?”
“The poetry about the picture. Say it. Say it.” He began to cry and tremble with his hot cheek close to mine.
I racked my brain for a poem:
“This is the miller who lives in the mill,
The mill beside the river, oh!...”
“No, no, no!” cried the child. “Not that!”
I tried again:
“Brown-eyed Peter is going for a soldier;
Going for a soldier with his little turn-up nose...”
“No, no, no!” shrieked Tioka despairingly. “Tania, Tania—the moon—the picture. Say it quickly!”