Most nights after both of them have said their tiny prayers, they cry for me to go upstairs and tell them stories about brave gypsies, eagles with claws strong enough to support a baby, and fairy sprites that prowl the woods at night.
And I have to depict these stories, as well as replicate the northern gales that hurl the aboriginal man's boat and demonstrate how he paddles.
If a bear appears in the story, I have to pause, take a whiff of the air, and describe how he scales the trees to grab the honey from the bees.
When I sting him on the nose and knees, I buzz like a swarm of furious bees and scream in agony till my mother yells, "That pair will never shut their eyes, While all that noise you make; You're simply keeping them awake."
They then say in a low voice, "Just one more,"
I'm compelled to roar once more.
Every night they clamor for new tales.
And that is not an easy duty; I have to portray a variety of characters, such as the croaking frog, the singing lark, the sly fox, and the scared hen. However, just last night, they managed to stump me when they asked me to resemble an angle worm by twisting and squirming.
When they finally fall asleep, I quietly crawl out of their room while brushing and combing the shock of hair I had tossed around like a bear.
"Well, I should say You're just as much a child as they," the mother responds.
But you can sure that I won't quit my job as a storyteller.