My little boy and I have had an exceedingly interesting walk in the Frederiksberg Park.
There was a mouse, which was irresistible. There were two chaffinches, husband and wife, which built their nest right before our eyes, and a snail, which had no secrets for us. And there were flowers, yellow and white, and there were green leaves, which told us the oddest adventures: in fact, as much as we can find room for in our little head.
Now we are sitting on a bench and digesting our impressions.
Suddenly the air is shaken by a tremendous roar:
"What was that?" asks my little boy.
"That was the lion in the Zoological Gardens," I reply.
No sooner have I said this than I curse my own stupidity.
I might have said that it was a gunshot announcing the birth of a prince; or an earthquake; or a china dish falling from the sky and breaking into pieces: anything whatever, rather than the truth.
For now my little boy wants to know what sort of thing the Zoological Gardens is.
I tell him.