A few weeks ago, Lucia wanted me to tell her a sad story. I spun out a story of a couple who wanted a child, couldn't have a child, and then had the spirit of the child who was supposed to be theirs appear before them in the woods as the couple was cooking over a camp-fire. The child said, "Oh, how I wish I could have been your child," and disappeared. I filled it out with a lot of "and they cried, and they cried, 'Oh how we wish we had a child.'" (Dear Spinnerets, I don't know what had gotten into me except that as far as the four humors go, I have a melancholy nature. I wish I were sanguine, but I'm not.) Lucia was enjoying the story. However, I couldn't bear the couple's sorrow, and I had them find a child in a basket outside their door the next morning with a note that said, "I am your child."
Lucia was put out that I gave the story a happy ending.
A few days ago, when Bede was driving Lucia home from school, he told her a story of a woodcutter who found a stump in the forest and decided in fun that he would dress the stump, feed the stump lunch and pretend the stump was a child. Of course, one day the stump turned into a child.
Lucia demanded, "What are the sad parts of the story?"