They planted seeds in the garden. The son said, “And I’ll go!” but my mother shouted, “No, no!” Can not, in any case! The child is only ten years old, and the seedlings are crooked. Not by day, but by hour, the Son grows and grows. He wants to strike the nail himself, Mother objects: - No, you are better, good hour, Walk in the garden, You are weak with us, Born in the blockade! The son became accustomed to the prohibitions of his mother, and became willing to rest in winter and summer. The mother finally admitted, looking at the son: - Son and really good, healthy uncle! Red is healthy. Come on, my son, the wood! But he replied, “No, I’d rather sit down!” I am weak in you, born in the blockade!