It is naive:

And the children began to feed normally, so they stopped eating all the shit in the middle of the road.

My dear man. The children were always well fed if the mother's hands grew from that place. One of my acquaintances often tells me about the horrors of her provincial childhood, how after school she went to lunch in the city dining room and pressed there with peanuts. At the same time, her mother was a classy teacher with a good above-average load of the subject, and her father was a military, as if he retired from the colonels later. Thus e. The money of the people was not small, the markets were not cancelled, but there was no lunch in the family.
I think to tell her, when again the story of hungry childhood will begin, that the matter was not in the country, but in her mother, or let her live restlessly? It’s been a long time and my mother is still alive.
Z is. And the children, they are, we too could always get stuck with the swallow of the immature crocodile from the abandoned garden, while in his garden the early has long been asleep.