There is a hill in our village. High, quite, with a steep slope. By the desire of the local leadership it was on the hill that it was decided to build new houses. They built. Without any elevators. On the upper floor of one new building received an apartment family - grandfather-veteran with wife, their son (also military) with wife and already their son and two daughters. The peculiarity of this family is that all the men there are named Michael. On Sunday morning, the whole family runs up the hill. The grandfather, whispering his mouth, sings:
If the Mice were bees, they would never have thought of building a house so high.