“That is all very well, but such tales or stories are worth nothing! No, the right ones come by themselves and knock at my forehead saying: ‘Here I am.’” “Mother says you can tell a fairy tale about anything you look at or touch.” “You can make one up,” said the little boy. “I ought to tell you a story, but the worst of it is, I do not know any more.” “There, now we know where you got your wet feet,” said the old man. “Just half as high as my top-boots,” replied the boy “but then I must stand in the deepest holes.” “Yes, if you can tell me as nearly as possible how deep is the gutter in the little street where you go to school.” “Will you tell me a story?” asked the boy.

“That,” replied the mother, “nobody can understand.” “But how did the little fellow get his wet feet?” he then asked. “Yes, if I only knew a fresh one,” said the old man, and nodded smilingly. “Now, drink your tea,” said the mother “perhaps you will hear a story.” At the same time, the kind-hearted old man who lived by himself in the upper storey of the house came in he led a lonely life, for he had no wife and children but he loved the children of others very much, and he could tell so many fairy tales and stories, that it was a pleasure to hear him. His mother undressed him, put him to bed, and ordered the teapot to be brought in, that she might make him a good cup of tea from the elder-tree blossoms, which is so warming. Nobody had the least idea how it had happened the weather was quite dry.

There was once a little boy who had caught cold he had gone out and got wet feet.

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