Margaret Marie Cogswell had much to be greatful for.
She lived by herself in a small cottage in the middle of her village. She had two dresses, and just enough bread to feed herself. Her hair slid down her back in full, dark waves that were the envy of every watchful eye. She had a horse who communicated only in hot breaths, and a best friend, who so happened to be a worm named Alice.
But Margaret Marie Cogswell was not satisfied.
After all, she had so much to be woeful for.
She lived by herself, which was, to say the least, a dreary and lonely experience that put a burden on her spirit. Her cottage was small, cramped, and untidy. Not the peaceful little villa she had always dreamed of. Her only two pieces of clothing were tattered, dirty, and worn. It had taken much mending to sew together the hems and seams that were falling apart. Her stomach rumbled most days, because although she had enough money to feed herself, it was never enough to satisfy. Her horse was old, lame, and stubborn, and didn't take too kindly to the lack of food. Worst of all, however, Margaret Marie Cogswell was alone.
She had no one to talk to, no one to listen to. No one with which to hold hands or dance in the middle of storms. She often spent many days at her window wishing for something more, but nothing more ever came.
Margaret Marie Cogswell was in misery.
All she had was a worm, a horse, and a peasant blouse.
