Sorrow and Anger

"There came a time of troubles to the Green Fields. In the first year, bitter winds blasted from the highlands, drying out the fields and leaving no grain and no fruit to harvest in the fall.

"But Littleman turned to his bride, Melindy, and he said—'we've still got our sheep, and our pony, and our plow. We'll have a good crop next year!' And she smiled at him, and they waited.

"Then, when spring came, it brought the rains in a flood, and with them came a sickness of flies across the land. They bit the animals, and the sheep and the ponies all got the evil sickness. They wasted away and died, even before the crop got in the ground.

"So Littleman turned to Melindy and he said—'be happy, my wife. We still have our stream, and our flowers.' And again she smiled at him, and they waited for the flies to go.

"Which they did, but only when the frosts came to freeze everything across the land. The stream dried away, caught in the highlands in a grip of ice, and all the flowers and even the grass withered away and died.

"This time Littleman turned to his wife and he soothed her fears: 'Don't worry, my dear--we have our hearth, and our burrow to shelter us.'

"But next came the storms, with such wind, such power, that the very roof was torn from the burrow, and the stones of the hearth fell down into a great pile, nearly crushing the two of them before they could flee from the broken wreckage of their home. At last they stood outside, shivering and desolate, with no food, no animals, and not even a shelter over their heads."

"Then what, Grandmother?" asked Kepli, wide-eyed and sorrowful. "Then did Littleman know sorrow and grief?"

"You might think so, Sprout--but you'd be wrong. For even then, with all of his life in ruins around him, he turned to Melindy, and he said: 'Be happy, my love--all we have lost we shall regain, in years to come. And for now, we still have each other.'

The small folk know the same griefs as humankind--death and illness, partings, natural disasters, and other tragedies. Though they, as a people, are deeply affected by such misfortune, halflings tend not to display their grief as openly as do humans. Halfling villagers who have just lost several neighbors and friends to marauding bandits will shuffle around as if they are in shock--there will be few tears, little wailing or crying.

Even more surprising, there will be few expressions of outright anger or hostility. Revenge is not a great drive to most halflings, though occasionally a wrong will be judged so heinous, so unforgivable, that retribution is required (deliberate murder is a prime example). Loss of possessions, however--whether due to accident or the malicious acts of others--tends to be greeted with a more relaxed attitude of 'easy come, easy go.'

In their day-to-day lives, halflings are remarkably impervious to frustration and depression. Members of the small folk show a remarkable ability to adapt to the circumstances of their surroundings. If the crops fail and food is short, they derive that much more pleasure from the meager fare that they eat. If the roof caves in and the family has no place to sleep, they will remark how fortunate they were that no one was seriously hurt--and they'll mean it!

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