They couldn’t put Hans in a cradle, for
his quills stuck through the blankets. So
they filled an old wooden box with straw,
put Hans in it, and hid the box behind the
stove so visitors wouldn’t see their strange son.
They fed him scraps—when they remembered
he was there—but for the most part, they
ignored him. Never once did his mother hold
him to her breast and coo to him. Never once
did his father reach out a finger to Hans, to
be grasped by the baby’s tiny fingers and take
pride in his son’s grip.
Hans’s father, who had once wished for
a child at any price, now wished perhaps the
most terrible wish anyone could wish. He
wished that Hans would die. But Hans didn’t
die. He grew strong despite the neglect, and
soon he had outgrown his box behind the
stove.
Hans spent his days in the barnyard now,
singing to the animals, feeding and stroking
them, and making sure they knew they were
loved. They thrived on the attention. One
rooster grew to the size of a small pony, and
Hans used to ride it through town, never
minding that folks laughed and pointed at
him. None of the village children would
play with him—even if they wanted to, their
mothers would spit on the ground when the
hedgehog boy was mentioned.
“Who really knows what he is, or where
he came from? Safest to stay away,” they’d say,
and go back to their spinning or cooking.
So Hans grew up to be the loneliest boy
in town. Even the village hermit got more
visitors than he.I CAN’T
BELIEVE
THEY’RE SO
MEAN TO
HIM!!
I THINK
HEDGEHOGS
ARE CUTE.