THERE was once a fat little, nice little, round little boy and his name was Tim. As soon as people looked at him they began to laugh and he began to laugh too. He had dimples on his knees and dimples on his hands and dimples all round his mouth. That was because Fairies liked him and used to kiss him whenever they flew past him, and they kissed him so much that they made dimples. He had a
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lot of curly hair which made a lovely mop. In fact he was lovesome all over and no one ever denied it. But when he played about and he never stopped playing the wind blew his curly mop into tangles, and when he stood on his head on his bed or the grass or the nursery floor, that rubbed it into tangles; and when he was asleep and cuddled down into his pillows and dreamed delightful things, that ruffled it into tangles. So after he was dressed in the morning his mamma was obliged to brush them all out and comb out all the knots and make him look soft and fluffy and lovesome for the rest of
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the day. Now of course this might have been very horrid for both of them. He might have wriggled and cried and she might have pulled hard and scolded. But nothing of the sort happened because they were both nice people. He was a nice people and she was a nice people. So she used to sit down on a chair by a window which looked right into a big maple tree where birds lived, and Tim used to turn his back and stand leaning his fat little warm body against her knee and then she would comb and brush, and while she did she
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told him the Hair Curling Stories. This was one of them and it was called:
Once there was another little boy and his name was Bartholomew Herbert Hubert Ellecompane but of course he was not called all that at once. When people wanted him they only said Barty and he was quite satisfied, because you see that if every time anyone wanted to make you a present of a beautiful train or a box of caramels, he had to call out "Bartholomew Herbert Hubert Ellecompane" before
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he could give them to you, a great deal of time would be wasted.
Well, Barty was a nice people. If he had not been you would probably have heard crying and seen wriggling in his nursery every morning. He lived in the time when boys wore quite long, curly hair and if your hair is short you don't know how much combing and brushing that takes. But Barty was so cheerful that he did not mind it one bit and even used to laugh and chuckle and sing songs his hair was being brushed. (When the story of the Good Wolf was
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being told to Tim his mother used to feel his fat little body shake against her knee when he heard this part because he always laughed and chuckled at it.)
Indeed Barty was a great blessing and a privilege. He lived on the edge of a deep forest, and he was very fond of that forest because there were such wonderful things in it things that grew and things that built nests and things that burrowed under the earth and made long passages and little warm caves to live in delightful things.
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Besides which Barty had heard that there were Fairies there, though he had never seen one.
He was not a rich little boy, in fact he was quite poor. He had no toys at all because his father and mother had no money. When he went to bed. He used to lie and think of all the things he would like to have, and when he went to sleep he sometimes dreamed he had them, which was very nice, but when he wakened they were not there.
One morning in the winter he wished very much for a sled because when he looked out of the window all the ground was covered with
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sparkling snow and all the trees in the forest were loaded with it, and the sun was shining on glittering icicles hanging from the roof.
"I want a sled," he whispered to himself as he pressed his little nose against the glass. "I want one I wish I had one."
If he had not been a blessing and a privilege he would have cried, but he actually didn't. He scrambled down and asked his mother to put on his thick scarlet cap and coat and his rubber boots, and he went striding out into the snow like a stout little robin red breast.
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He stamped across the road and stamped across the field to the edge of his beloved deep forest, because he wanted to see what things were doing, the things that build nests and the things that burrow and make little warm caves to live in.
And when he reached the very edge where the thick trees began— there he saw sitting up on its haunches and looking straight at him an Immense Wolf.
He gave a little jump and turned pale and was going to run away as fast as his rubber boots would carry him, when he suddenly stopped
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because he could not help it. The Wolf was speaking to him.
"Do not be frightened," he said in a slow deep voice. "And do not run away. I am a Good Wolf."
Usually wolves don't talk, but this one did, and there were such peculiar things about him that Barty actually forgot to be frightened.
"How—how good are you?" he asked.
"I am this good," the Wolf said quite solemnly. "When I see a little boy who is a blessing and a privilege and never frets and says he has nothing to play with, and never wriggles when his
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