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She stood there, upon the rise in the prairie's vast plains. She stood with her back facing the way she had come from. She was leaving it all, never to return. The wind rippled the tall grass in front of her, like waves in an ocean tide. The fading sunlight in the evening sky caught on the grass, and made it look as if it were gold.
She took her first step into the unknown, then another, and another. She was walking away. It felt good to her, to be free, away from her old self, ready to start anew. Her burlap bag, faded and worn hung over her shoulder. She had provisions for at least a month in there, along with a blanket and an oil lamp with matches. She did not know how long it would take before she found the next town.
She was walking, alone, and in the middle of a prairie, ever walking. She followed the beaten path from Papa working in the field at harvest. The track was fading now, she was leaving her property, over the edge, then over again. She started to sing. Her song was strange, but lulling, and soothed her. Her voice rang high and clear over the plain, as it had so many times before. Her song went something like this:

In sleep will the sparrow sing
while the mocking bird will die.
In the long way from where we walk
Above the heavens bright.

Sleep little children
don't be afraid
the time will come
but for now all is safe.
Sleep little children,
rest your weary head,
sleep is upon you, go to bead.

Her last note rung in the air, like a bell tolling from the old church. Her words reflected on her life. She was not a little child, but she could become one in her wildest dreams, as she slept, in peace, unbroken. She undid her hair from its tight bun and let it fall around her, in great waves of red. She was an outcast for having red hair. She was known as the little red head....