'dear God,' She Prayed, 'let

She Was Made Up Of More, Too. She Was The Books She Read In The Library. She Was The Flower In The Brown Bowl. Part Of Her Life Was Made From The Tree Growing Rankly In The Yard. She Was The Bitter Quarrels She Had With Her Brother Whom She Loved Dearly. She Was Katie's Secret, Despairing Weeping. She Was The Shame Of Her Father Stumbling Home Drunk. She Was All Of These Things And Of Something More...it Was What God Or Whatever Is His Equivalent Puts Into Each Soul That Is Given Life - The One Different Thing Such As That Which Makes No Two Fingerprints On The Face Of The Earth Alike.

And You Must Tell The Child The Legends I Told You - As My Mother Told Them To Me And Her Mother To Her. You Must Tell The Fairy Tales Of The Old Country. You Must Tell Of Those Not Of The Earth Who Live Forever In The Hearts Of The People.

Because The Child Must Have A Valuable Thing Which Is Called Imagination. The Child Must Have A Secret World In Which Live Things That Never Were. It Is Necessary That She Believe. She Must Start Out Believing In Things Not Of This World. Then When The World Becomes Too Ugly For Living In, The Child Can Reach Back And Live In Her Imagination.

Well' Francie Decided, 'i Guess The Thing That Is Giving Me This Headache Is Life - And Nothing Else But'.

They Learned No Compassion From Their Own Anguish. Thus Their Suffering Was Wasted.