August 10, 2011

One day Clyde leaned on his hoe instead of chopping at the weeds in the garden. Why? His wife, as was her habit, was off gathering string, and Clyde tended to laze and dream when not lashed from task to task by his wife’s long barbed tongue.

“Help me, you great bullock!” cried a tiny voice from below.

With a jerk of his head, Clyde snapped out of his thoughtless stupor. He peered down to discover a wee man all tangled up in what Clyde recognized as one of his wife’s blue strings.

“Get me out of this, you dolt! I’ll grant you a wish if you’ll hop to it before we both age to dust,” said the wee man.

Quicker than that, Clyde unraveled the wee fellow, setting him free.

“Make haste and wish, lout. I’m already late for the Queen’s Owl Conference,” snapped the wee man.

“I wish my hat could sing,” said Clyde.

“Whatever,” muttered the wee man before he jumped up and ran away through the hedge.

And so it came to pass that Clyde’s wife, after hearing from his foolish lips the exciting news about the wee man and the wish, never spoke to him again, but his hat sang beautifully from morn to night, and all was as well as can be expected.

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