village.

DAIRYMAN. I will, my child, with pleasure.

AMAL. And you'll teach me to cry curds and shoulder the yoke
like you and walk the long, long road?

DAIRYMAN. Dear, dear, did you ever? Why should you sell curds?
No, you will read big books and be learned.

AMAL. No, I never want to be learned--I'll be like you and take
my curds from the village by the red road near the old banyan
tree, and I will hawk it from cottage to cottage. Oh, how do you
cry--"Curd, curd, good nice curd!" Teach me the tune, will you?

DAIRYMAN. Dear, dear, teach you the tune; what an idea!

AMAL. Please do. I love to hear it. I can't tell you how queer
I feel when I hear you cry out from the bend of that road,
through the line of those trees! Do you know I feel like that
when I hear the shrill cry of kites from almost the end of the
sky?

DAIRYMAN. Dear child, will you have some curds? Yes, do.

AMAL. But I have no money.

DAIRYMAN. No, no, no, don't talk of money! You'll make me so
happy if you have a little curds from me.