Toes In, Big Ned
At the foot of a round green hill there was a little kingdom of crooked roofs. And at the top of the hill, a giant lay asleep.
His name was Big Ned. He was as long as the hill. He slept under a patchwork blanket that the whole kingdom had sewn for him, square by square, and he had been kind from his very first snore.
But the blanket was not quite long enough. Big Ned’s bare feet always poked out at the bottom.
On moonlit nights the air went cool, and his toes went cold. Then his nose began to twitch. And then:
“AAA-CHOO!”
And all the washing flew.
Sheets flew off the lines. Shirts flew. Nightgowns flew. Every sock in the kingdom went sailing over the crooked roofs, and everybody woke up. In the morning the baker’s apron was always sitting on top of the church weathervane.
“Again,” said the baker, and went to fetch the ladder.
Down by the mill lived Nell, the miller’s smallest girl. Nell was very good at tiptoeing. She could tiptoe right past the mill cat, and the mill cat never flicked an ear.
Nell was very bad at keeping her socks on. Every night Mom tucked her up and said, “Toes in.” And every morning Nell’s socks were at the bottom of the bed, or under it, or once, somehow, on the cat.
One morning Nell looked at all the sheets hanging off the chimneys.
“I wish the whole kingdom could have one quiet night,” said Nell. “Just once.”
“So do I,” said Mom, and yawned.
“Big Ned only sneezes because his feet are cold,” said Nell. “Somebody should tuck him in.”
“Somebody would have to be very quiet,” said Mom.
Nell smiled. She was the quietest somebody she knew.
That night the moon came up big and round. Mom wrapped Nell in a shawl and stood in the lit doorway to watch her go.
Nell tiptoed past the mill cat. Tip, tip, tip. She tiptoed up the hill path, all the way to the top.
Big Ned’s feet were bigger than the mill door. His toes were pink with cold.
Nell took hold of the blanket and pulled. She pulled and pulled. Slowly the blanket slid down, until every toe was covered.
“There,” said Nell, very softly.
But at the other end, out popped Big Ned’s ears. They were as big as cartwheels. The cool air blew on them, and his nose began to twitch.
“AAA-CHOO!”
And all the washing flew.
Nell sat down in the grass with a bump. Her hair blew straight up and stayed there. When she tiptoed home, Mom smoothed it down and laughed.
In the morning the baker’s apron was on the weathervane.
“Again,” said the baker.
The next day Nell found Mom’s basket of wool. She knitted all day long. She knitted red stripes and yellow stripes and blue stripes, round and round, until she had two socks. They were the biggest socks she had ever made.
That night she carried them up the hill.
Nell held the first sock up to Big Ned’s foot. It was too small for his foot. It was too small for his heel. It was just exactly right for his big toe.
So she popped it on his big toe, like a thimble.
But the other nine toes were still bare. Big Ned’s nose began to twitch.
“AAA-CHOO!”
And all the washing flew. So did the second sock.
In the morning the baker’s apron was on the weathervane. And the little tin cockerel on the very top was wearing a stripy sock for a hat.
“Again,” said the baker. “And that’s new.”
On the third night Nell sat on her bed and frowned at her feet.
“I pulled the blanket down, and his ears got cold,” said Nell. “I knitted socks, and they only fit one toe. I don’t know what else to try.”
Mom pulled the covers up to Nell’s chin.
“Toes in,” said Mom.
Nell curled her toes in. Her knees came up. Her whole self went small and warm under the covers, from her ears to her feet.
Nell sat straight up.
“That’s it!” said Nell.
Mom laughed. “Go on, then,” said Mom. “I’ll keep your bed warm.”
Nell tiptoed past the mill cat. Tip, tip, tip. She went up the hill path, past Big Ned’s feet, past the stripy sock on his big toe. She climbed the patchwork blanket square by square, like a staircase, all the way up to his enormous ear.
She leaned in close, as quiet as quiet. “Toes in, Big Ned,” said Nell.
Big Ned smiled in his sleep. “Mm,” he said.
Then, very slowly, Big Ned curled up. His knees came up. His feet came in. His ears slid down under the patchwork. At last the whole of him fit under the blanket. Even the stripy sock.
Nell waited.
Big Ned’s nose did not twitch. There was only a slow, soft snore. Hrrrm-whoo. Hrrrm-whoo.
No sneeze. Not one.
Down in the kingdom, the washing hung still on every line. The sheets hung still. The shirts hung still. The baker’s apron hung on its own peg, right where it belonged. And everybody slept.
Nell climbed down and tiptoed home. Tip, tip, tip. The mill cat did not even flick an ear.
Mom was tucked up in Nell’s little bed, with her feet poking out at the bottom.
“I kept it warm,” said Mom, and climbed out.
“Not one sneeze,” said Mom. “I listened the whole time. Thank you, Nell.”
She tucked the covers round Nell, and kissed her on the nose, and said what she said every night.
“Toes in.”
Nell curled her toes in. And this time her socks stayed on all night long.
Up on the round green hill, Big Ned slept curled under his patchwork blanket, with one stripy sock on his big toe. He wore it ever after.
And down by the mill, Nell slept curled under hers, toes in, warm and still, just like Big Ned on the hill.
