there in my own sunbeam but swathed in mystery some esoteric story wrought in encoded signs, one more of the shrewd, well-tried ways that a child is kept from some shrouded grown-up truth, probably linked with tears. for the one thing clear to youth is that no joy goes unwept and that their utmost fears will be amply justified, which makes them minor sages without the words for what they cannot yet know or say, that whatever lies in store they were typecast in some play with a far from comic plot - grief, selfishness, and war crowding its dog-eared pages.