“Now you tell one!” Morgen told the story of the Great Good Elf.
Afterwards Richard said, “We could not have told those stories if we were not getting well.”
In the cot at night, in the firelight, again the boy. “Tell me a story—tell me a story!”
“All our lives to make these stories. All our lives of us all!”
“All!”
The child slept, the little flame sang, bough of tree struck the cot. They sat and seemed to look down and seemed to look up a road that went forever.
Wild flowers appeared. The child gathered them. Morgen wore a knot at her bosom, Richard one in his cap. “Tell me a story—tell me a story!”
The charcoal burner came and took away his son. He gave rude thanks and said that henceforth they were friends. They missed the lad until they found that they had him still.
The wind pushed the high cloud ships and certain trees put on their earliest touch of green. They rested in the wood from chopping and gathering, and seated upon the felled tree, smelled the fragrance of the world.