Francois Dubois was three feet tall with golden hair. He lived in the deep forest, where the pines grew together so densely that it was hard to tell day from night. By and bye, he was an orderly and self-sufficient fellow who was early to bed and early to rise. At the crack of dawn he would tumble from bed and boil a pot of milk, which he would take for breakfast along with a slice of bread. After breakfast he took a stroll to invigorate his mind, directing his feet around the perimeter of the house and weaving among the tall trees. While we walked, he liked to entertain lofty ideas, like what it meant to walk by faith and whether war could ever lead to peace. Upon returning to his house, by the southern wall, he crouched to the earth and tended his garden. He delicately pruned and clipped and watered and patted the soil where his vegetables (mostly nightshades, like eggplant and tomato and bell peppers) grew.