what?
Rosie Moore was something of an unusual child, but very few people ever realized that.
Her grandparents were Irish immigrants, and she lived in a very Celtic area of New York City. Kilts were not uncommon, nor, unfortunately, was drunken singing of Irish folk songs late at night. Rosie was used to this, in fact, she could not remember a time in all seven years of her small, stubborn existence that it had surprised her. Of course, she knew she couldn't *always* have been used to it, because there had to have been a first time, and you can't be used to something the first time it happens, you know.
She was rather like Louis Carrol's Alice, but her Wonderland was not reached by falling through any rabbit hole, but was simply the world around her as seen by her childish eyes--eyes that made it seem to be something fascinating and new and altogether magical. She possessed the same rare, childish logic as the sweet little girl who followed the white rabbit.
Rosie had few friends, for she did not naturally seek out the company of other children, but rather reveled in books and the worlds of her imagination. There were a handful of children who would have been glad to befriend her, but she was as unaware of this as she was of her own mortality, for those who are young always believe they will live forever.
Her parents were not particularly kind to her, though they were certain not unkind. It was just that she had three older brothers and one younger--he was just an infant--so they rarely had time for the seven-year-old girl who would rather be by herself. Besides, the two of them were so often arguing that it often seemed as if they were unaware that they even had children at all. So Rosie went without lunch when they forgot to pack it, and tucked herself to bed at night.
Rosie Moore was something of an unusual child, but very few people ever realized that.
Her grandparents were Irish immigrants, and she lived in a very Celtic area of New York City. Kilts were not uncommon, nor, unfortunately, was drunken singing of Irish folk songs late at night. Rosie was used to this, in fact, she could not remember a time in all seven years of her small, stubborn existence that it had surprised her. Of course, she knew she couldn't *always* have been used to it, because there had to have been a first time, and you can't be used to something the first time it happens, you know.
She was rather like Louis Carrol's Alice, but her Wonderland was not reached by falling through any rabbit hole, but was simply the world around her as seen by her childish eyes--eyes that made it seem to be something fascinating and new and altogether magical. She possessed the same rare, childish logic as the sweet little girl who followed the white rabbit.
Rosie had few friends, for she did not naturally seek out the company of other children, but rather reveled in books and the worlds of her imagination. There were a handful of children who would have been glad to befriend her, but she was as unaware of this as she was of her own mortality, for those who are young always believe they will live forever.
Her parents were not particularly kind to her, though they were certain not unkind. It was just that she had three older brothers and one younger--he was just an infant--so they rarely had time for the seven-year-old girl who would rather be by herself. Besides, the two of them were so often arguing that it often seemed as if they were unaware that they even had children at all. So Rosie went without lunch when they forgot to pack it, and tucked herself to bed at night.
