“Do you think so?” said Vassili, patting his little son's fair head and contemplating the small face, which at that moment was making a terrible grimace over its food. “What makes you say so?”
“You shall see.” I leaned over to the child. “Tioka, my darling, won't you eat your nice dinner?”
“No!” said Tioka with great decision.
“Come, now, darling, eat your nice soup,” and I held a spoonful to his lips.
“No,” said Tioka, turning his face away.
“Why not, dear? Don't you like it?”
“No. It's nasty.”
“Well, then,” I said, putting down the spoon, “we will give it to the farmer's little boy.”
“No! no!” cried Tioka, and he quickly devoured the soup in large spoonfuls.
Vassili laughed. “He is quite right. His soup is not for the farmer's little boy. To each one his own soup, isn't that so, Tioka!”