Pelle painted on burr elm
Shovel and pickaxe Pickaxe Lady Lady bade Shovel supper. In her point of caviar, sweet honey to lick Neither But many large boulders As unique graillou. The Pelle of this dish, do that collects crumbs; The Pickaxe, better armed, so engulfs the base Without the other gossip in May Shoveling three strands. Digesting the bad case, but simulating the spirit, Pelle starts to hostess: - Thanks for these feasts And for your compliments! I will remember the address, is a good step! … And I fervently hope, Feeling indebted, have you at my table soon… Fairly How about Sunday? … Delighted, Pioche accepts In the nodding of the handle. It is rather inept To think that Pelle Will a fee for her… It's Sunday, we banquet! But instead of feasting, is rather homely: Nothing but sand! The Pickaxe is hungry, make holes, it digs. Week plugging away, it has the tooth, pig! But here, there is no way to pique On one grain! She made a wry face… Savoring his kitchen, Pelle took his spot And added to the scaffold, Saying time to time, by showing the silica, a little slyly: - Take your time, this dish is eaten cold! .
The excavators of the Forest
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The excavators of the Forest
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