" The story is as follows. One Sunday morning about harvest
time, just as the buckwheat was in bloom, the sun was shining brightly
in heaven, the east wind was blowing warmly over the stubble-fields,
the larks were singing in the air, the bees buzzing among the buckwheat,
the people were all going in their Sunday clothes to church, and all
creatures were happy, and the hedgehog was happy too.
The hedgehog, however, was standing by his door with his arms akimbo,
enjoying the morning breezes, and slowly trilling a little song to
himself, which was neither better nor worse than the songs which hedgehogs
are in the habit of singing on a blessed Sunday morning. Whilst he was
thus singing half aloud to himself, it suddenly occurred to him that,
while his wife was washing and drying the children, he might very well
take a walk into the field, and see how his turnips were going on. The
turnips were, in fact, close beside his house, and he and his family
were accustomed to eat them, for which reason he looked upon them as his
own. No sooner said than done. The hedgehog shut the house-door behind
him, and took the path to the field.
Pages:
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181