Maradino had had enough. His mother had been baking sweet after delicate sweet from morning till noon, yet she had expressly prohibited him from trying even the tiniest crumb of her creations. She'd holler and holler as he cried, but only the words 'not for you' and terrible' and 'must promise me' reached his ears between his banshee- like wails. 'Let her have her little cookies,' decided Maradino, later that evening, after having been forced to swallow no small amount of charcoal by way of punishment. 'They tasted terrible anyway.'