Page:Modern Russian Poetry.djvu/59

Rh

God's will be done! No food he'll try, The youngest son— Look, he will die.

A crust I got, Another bit— He touched it not: "Put salt on it!"

Of salt no shred, No pinch I see! "Take flour, instead," God whispered me.

Two bites, or one— His mouth he pouts, The little son. "More salt!" he shouts.

The bit appears Again all floured, And wet with tears It was devoured.

The mother said She'd saved her dear. . . . Salt was the bread— How salt the tear!