The Hedgehog and the Wind’s Hats

Once there was a hedgehog called Hob, who lived under a hedge at the bottom of a long valley, beside the only lane. Every year, on the morning of the first frost, Hob woke up with cold ears.

Hob was small and stubborn, and he had one way of solving problems. He curled up. When it rained, he curled up. When it was Monday, he curled up. When his aunt asked whether he had wiped his feet, he curled up tight and stayed that way until she went and asked somebody else. It worked more often than you would think.

It did not work on ears. However tightly Hob curled, his ears were always on the outside.

Hats were no help either. His aunt knitted him a hat. The badger across the lane gave him a tea cosy. The mice gave him a thimble, which was kind of them, and much too small. Every hat Hob had ever been given went the same way. It got stuck full of holes on the very top of his prickles, and it sat up there like a flag on a hill, a long way from his ears.

“What I need,” said Hob, “is a hat that stays on.”

“Then you’ll have to ask the North Wind,” said his aunt. “It has all of them.”

The North Wind lived in a cave on a bare hill at the top of the valley, and it kept every hat it had ever blown off anybody’s head. Everybody in the valley had lost a hat to it. Nobody had ever gone up to ask for one back, because the North Wind had a rule, and the rule was old and firm.

But Hob was stubborn, and his ears were cold. So he set off up the lane.

* * *

It was a long lane, and Hob had short legs, so he got to the top at teatime. The cave was big and bright and draughty, with a hole in the roof where the sky came in. In the middle of it, hats were going round and round like washing in a tub. There were bonnets and bowlers, caps and crowns, a bishop’s mitre, and a baby’s bonnet with the ribbons still tied.

All round the walls were shelves cut into the rock, and under each shelf was a word in chalk. Hob read them. “Mildly.” “Quite.” “Very.” “Dropped the Shopping.” And, right at the end, “Fell in the Pond.”

The North Wind sorted its hats by how surprised their owners had looked.

“Well,” said the North Wind. When the North Wind talked, it talked in gusts, and every hat in the cave jumped. “Well. A visitor. Nobody visits. They shout at me. From the bottom of the hill.”

Then it forgot to keep blowing, and all the hats came down in a heap.

“Oh. Bother,” said the Wind. “More sorting. Takes a week.”

Hob was a polite hedgehog. He picked up the nearest hat, which was a straw one with cherries on it. “Where does this go?” he said.

“Quite,” said the Wind.

So Hob put it on Quite, and then he did the next one, and the next. For every hat, the Wind told him who it had belonged to and exactly what their face had done. It had not had anybody to tell in a very long time.

Near the bottom of the heap, Hob found a little red woollen hat with a bobble on top. It was bigger than it looked. When he shook it, something rattled.

“Bit of coal,” said the Wind. “In the bobble. That was a snowman’s. He didn’t look surprised at all. Not even mildly.” The Wind sounded a little hurt about it. “Don’t know. Which shelf.”

When all the other hats were on their shelves, Hob said, “Please, may I have one to keep? My ears are cold.”

“What the North Wind takes,” said the Wind, “the North Wind keeps.” All the hats jumped. Then it thought about how nice the afternoon had been. “But. You may have one. If you can keep it on. While I blow my very hardest.”

Now, Hob was small, but he was not silly.

“Any hat I like?” said Hob.

“Any hat.”

“As many tries as I like?”

The Wind thought of its thousands of hats, and how nobody ever came to look at them. “As many as you like.”

“And when you’ve blown your hardest, and you’re out of breath, if the hat is still on me, it’s mine to keep. For good.”

“If,” said the Wind.

The North Wind thought this was very funny. It did not laugh, though. The North Wind had not laughed in a hundred years. There is not much to laugh at, alone on a hill with your hats.

* * *

First Hob tried a lace bonnet. He tied the ribbons under his chin very gently, so as not to poke any holes in it. The Wind took a breath and blew. The bonnet went up off his head, ribbons and all, and sailed to the back of the cave and landed on Fell in the Pond.

“What the North Wind takes,” said the Wind, “the North Wind keeps.”

Next Hob tried a tall black hat, and he held it on with both paws. The Wind blew. The hat went straight out of the cave and over the valley, getting smaller and smaller, until it passed above a farm, where a cow looked up at it. Mildly.

“What the North Wind takes,” said the Wind, “the North Wind keeps. I’ll fetch it tomorrow.”

Then Hob tried a sailor’s cap. He pulled it down hard and leaned into the wind with all his weight, which was not much. The Wind blew. The cap went spinning out of the cave, down the hill, down the valley, and all the way to the sea.

“What the North Wind takes,” said the Wind, “the North Wind keeps.” It was enjoying itself enormously. “That’s three. Stop. If you like.”

“I said as many tries as I like,” said Hob. “And I don’t like stopping.”

But he did need to think. So he did what he always did. He curled up on the floor of the cave.

He thought about his aunt’s hat, and the badger’s tea cosy, and every hat he had ever been given. Not one of them had ever blown off. Every one of them had stuck. They had only stuck in the wrong place.

Hob uncurled, and he went and fetched the snowman’s hat.

A snowman has a much bigger head than a hedgehog. The red hat came down over Hob’s ears, and over his eyes, and halfway down his back. He turned the brim up twice so he could see out. The coal rattled in the bobble.

Then Hob curled up, tight as tight. Every one of his prickles came up through the wool and held it fast, like a hundred little hatpins. Wool does not mind a hole or two. Now he was a round red ball with a bobble on top.

“Ready,” said Hob, from inside the hat.

The North Wind blew.

Hob rolled. He went round and round the cave with all the hats, like washing in a tub, and he did not mind a bit. Hedgehogs are made for rolling, and the floor was soft with bonnets. The Wind blew harder, and the bishop’s mitre went round nine times. The Wind blew its very hardest, until the hole in the roof whistled like a kettle. It blew until it had no blow left. Then all the hats came down, and Hob came down on top of them, the right way up.

He uncurled. The hat was on. His ears were warm.

First there was a small puff in the cave, like a sneeze. Then a bigger one. Then the North Wind laughed for the first time in a hundred years. It laughed so hard that every hat in the cave jumped up and stayed up, and the baby’s bonnet did a little dance at the top.

“Out of breath!” said the Wind, when it had some breath again. “By a hedgehog! Well. That settles. The snowman’s hat. Doesn’t need a shelf. It’s got a hedgehog.”

“It’s mine, then,” said Hob.

“It’s yours,” said the Wind. “What the North Wind takes, the North Wind keeps.” It stopped. “Except from hedgehogs.”

Hob looked at the Wind, who would be alone again with its hats as soon as he went home. Hob was clever, but he was kind as well, and that is the better thing to be.

“You could come and tug at it,” said Hob. “Any blustery Tuesday. Just for fun. I’ll curl up, and you can try.”

“Why Tuesday?” said the Wind.

“Nothing ever happens on a Tuesday,” said Hob. “And I’ll tell you how surprised everybody in the valley looked that week.”

The Wind liked that very much.

So Hob walked home down the long lane in the red hat, with the coal rattling in the bobble and his ears warm. And every blustery Tuesday after that, the North Wind came down the lane and tugged at the hat, and Hob curled up, and the hat stayed on, and the Wind went home laughing.

And on the morning of the next first frost, Hob woke up with warm ears.

And that is why, to this day, the wind tugs at every hedgehog it passes, just in case, and every hedgehog curls up tight, and the wind goes home laughing.