In the morning I meet a rosy-cheeked little Sandra on the farm. She is weaving wreaths
- Why do you need so many wreaths?
- We will play princes and princesses, and these will be our crowns.

I see that nearby the little ones are making something out of branches, perhaps this will be their palace
- Nice. - I say. And I decided to ask directly - will you show me your tattoos? - Yes, but you have to play with us. You will be our pony.
All morning I rode them on me like ponies. Each one individually on my neck, on my back, on all fours, and all together in a cart. The sweet children urged me on with twigs. Of course, they don't have much strength to whip hard and painfully, and they don't weigh much to be heavy to carry, but in the morning we rode several circles around the farm and even visited the orange plantations.
Everyone who met us happily waved their hands at us and praised me, what a great boy I was, playing with the kids. True, behind my back they twirled their fingers at their temples. I myself believe that no grown-up, reasonable person would strain themselves so much to bring so much joy to these little demons.
But by lunchtime I had all the tattoos of the younger members of the family fixed. And I went to lunch with a sense of accomplishment.
Crawling on all fours, my knees were torn, my shoulders, back and buttocks were cut by blows from the rods, my ears were red and swollen (those who jumped sitting on my neck constantly grabbed me by the ears), but on my list next to many names there were check marks, I moved further and further towards solving the mystery of my great-grandfather's will.