Quill the Little Hedgehog Who Curled Up Just Right
Under a great heap of crackly autumn leaves, in a corner of a sleepy garden, lived a little hedgehog named Quill.
Quill was small. Smaller than the rabbits, smaller than the cat next door, smaller even than the fat toad by the pond. And he was prickly all over, so that when the other creatures cuddled up soft and close, Quill worried he didn't quite fit anywhere.
"I'm too little," he sighed, as the garden grew dark. "And too prickly. The rabbits have their soft fur, the birds have their warm feathers. What good are all my spikes?"
Old Mother Hedgehog shuffled over through the leaves and settled beside him. "Let me tell you a secret about those spikes," she said kindly.
"When the cold wind blows, your spikes hold a whole blanket of warm leaves. And when the world feels too big, your spikes let you curl into a perfect little ball — snug and safe, with everything you need right there around you. Watch."
Quill tucked in his nose and his little feet, and curled, and curled — until he was a round, cosy ball, warm all the way through, the crackly leaves held close by every spike.
"Oh," he said, from inside his snug little bundle. "It's warm in here. And safe."
"You're not too little," said Mother Hedgehog. "You are exactly the right size to be you. And no one in the whole garden can curl up as cosy as a hedgehog."
A warm, quiet feeling settled over Quill — not the leaves this time, but the soft, happy knowing that he was just right, exactly as he was.
Around him the garden breathed slow and low. The pond lay still. The stars came out, one by one, above the leaf pile.
And Quill, curled in his perfect little ball, exactly the right size, drifted gently and happily off to sleep.