On Magic Dust

 Once, a woman traveled. She had a pocket full of magic dust, for safe keeping until the time came when she would need it. All the same, when she saw a need, she sprinkled a minute portion.

   The lands through which she moved were varied. In the countryside, there was little need for magic dust - the seasons' needs offered no time to think of it. And in the villages, there was not much more need of the dust - people were either happy with the company they kept or happy to discuss the alternative at length, which kept everyone busy.

    The people in the cities took the dust. But it did little good. People there had too much money, and not enough. Regardless the side on which one fell, more was always wanted. The dust, the woman knew, was largely wasted. 

   After she had seen quite a lot, the woman sprinkled all the remaining dust over a large city. Perhaps - though it was a small perhaps - it would do some good. No matter. As the dust was gone, it wasn't her affair. Then she went to live in the countryside with the cows. The cows were pleasant company, and they did not need magic dust. Nor, as it happened, did she.

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