If you recognise it, it's not mine.

As I walk through the woods with a silent tread, listening to the birds singing, I think about how nice it is, away from the rules and watching eyes in District Twelve. As I hear a lull in the birdsong, I sing the opening line of a song which seems as old as the hills round the woods.

"Are you, are you, coming to the tree-"

"That's a new one, daddy."

Oops. My daughter has run back to my side.

"I thought you were gathering flowers for your mother?"

"I have! Look!" she says, displaying a handful of wildflowers. I breathe a sigh of relief, hoping that she's forgotten the song. However, she skips along for a few steps, before turning to me again.

"What was that song? You know, the one about the tree. I haven't heard it before."

Seven years old and as sharp as a blackberry thorn.

"Oh, nothing."

She turns away and I think she's satisfied.

"Look daddy," she says in a hushed whisper.

"A mockingjay."

Peering through the trees, I catch a glimpse of the black and white bird.

"Sing to it. Please."

"Why don't you give it a go?"

"Okay. What song should I do?"

"How about the one about the meadow?"

"Yes."

I mean the soft, sweet lullaby which I often hear her crooning to her little sister at home.

"Deep in the meadow, under the willow.

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow-"

That's how far she gets before she's interrupted by a squawking turkey which waddles across the path. I arm my bow and fire, taking out the culprit, but she's still discontented.

"How much further is it?" she moans.

"Not long. Try again. The bird's still there."

"They aren't quiet for me. They are for you. Please, you sing. The new song about the tree."

I'm saved from having to reply by our arrival at a clear lake. A small stone house stands next to it. She runs straight to it.

"Look daddy, look!"

I thought she would like this place. However, the journey here wasn't purely for pleasure. In the lake, tall plants grow out of the water, with pointed white flowers. I timed it just right. My daughter has noticed them too.

"What are these, daddy?"

She pokes at them with a stick, laughing as the white roots float to the surface.

"It's Katniss root!"

"Yes," I say, laughing too.

Then I notice the berries clutched in her hand, and panic.

"Not these. Never these. This is nightlock. You'll be dead before they hit your stomach."

She looks terrified, so I try and lighten the mood by stirring up more katniss root.

"As long as you can find yourself, you'll never go hungry."

As I chop wood to make a fire in the little house, Katniss sweeps the floor with a broom I made out of twigs. Then she stops. She whistles a bit of the meadow song. And the melody is bounced back to her. She turns to me, grey eyes shining.

"Here's another mockingjay, daddy! Sing the tree song!"

I've run out of excuses. So I begin.

"Are you, are you, coming to the tree

Where they strung up a man they say murdered three.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight

In the hanging tree."

I sing the whole song, right through. Katniss sits with her eyes closed. She doesn't react, not at all, even at the bits where it seems creepy, even to me. When I finish, she opens her eyes.

"I like that song, daddy."

Then the mockingjays begin their rendition. It is beautiful.

As Katniss skips ahead of me through the woods home, she's humming something. As she pauses at the fence, to listen for if it's charged, I catch the last lines.

"Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

As she ducks under the fence, I hear nothing else. All the birds have fallen silent.