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“Some day I’ll marry and have a son
With hair of chestnut brown.
One day, I know he’ll climb this tree
And he’ll come tumbling down.
Alas, alas, Kikos dear!
Alas, dear Kikos is dead!”
All four of them wailed in chorus, “Alas, dear Kikos is
dead!”
The peasant thought a bit.
“Look here, you foolish women,” he said. “Why are you
crying? You know you can’t bring poor little Kikos back to
life with your tears. Let us go home instead, and invite the
neighbours to a feast in Kikos’s memory. Such is life, we
come and we depart it.”
All they possessed was an ox and a bag of flour. They killed
the ox, and baked bread, and invited the guests. Then they
ordered a mass for Kikos’s soul, and held a feast in his
memory.
That calmed them all, and they went on living as peacefully
as before.