There once was a girl who lived in a very small house. It had a roof of bright, golden straw. The straw not only kept her dry and warm, it was from a meadow filled with enchanted flowers and when the wind blew the right way, a perfume of roses and lilies cascaded down to her, and she would stand on the tips of her toes, stretch her arms wide and breathed as deeply as she could, till she imagined her body was infused with flowers. Then she would puff up her checks and stare so hard at the fencepost in front of her you would think she would set it ablaze. But no fire came; so the little girl would push the flower-soaked air OUT as hard and as fast as she could and she would imagine to herself that she was sending those vibrant perfumes, along with her love, to those who were fighting so bravely, and so far away. Then the little girl would go into her house lock the door, sit down and weep. Our little girl is not melancholy; this was the right thing to do. It was a time for sadness, and for tears, and for hoping the gentle memory of flowers on the wind could bring life and joy to a world tearing itself apart.