A Hedgehog Lullaby

A hedgehog by the name of Dot had found herself a leafy spot beneath the hedge, beside the wall, where garden rain could hardly fall.

And in the nest was little Pip, who would not sleep, who’d turn and flip, who’d lift his nose and say, “What’s that?” at every rustle, every pat.

“What’s that?” said Pip. Dot said, “The rain. It’s tapping on the leaves again. It’s only rain. It’s soft. It’s wet. It won’t come in. Now sleep.” “Not yet.”

“What’s that?” said Pip. Dot said, “A snail. He’s going home along the rail. He’s slow. He’s small. He’s silver, too. Now sleep.” Said Pip, “I’m watching you.”

“What’s that?” “An owl. She’s in the oak. She calls at night to other folk. She doesn’t want a hedgehog. No. She’s far too high. Now sleep, Pip.” “No.”

“What’s that?” “The wind. It’s in the hedge. It’s moving leaves along the edge. It’s only wind. It’s what wind does. Now sleep.” “I can’t. What’s that? A buzz?”

“That’s just a beetle going by. He’s late for bed, the same as I would be, if I were up with you. Now sleep.” “What’s that?” Dot said, “The dew.”

“The dew? What’s dew?” “It’s water, Pip. It comes at night, a drip, a drip, and sits on every blade of grass, and shines at dawn, like bits of glass.”

Pip yawned. He said, “I’d like to see.” Dot said, “You will. I promise. We will sleep, and then the dew, then dawn, and then two noses on the lawn.”

And Dot began to hum, quite low, the hum that hedgehog mothers know, a hum of leaves, a hum of rain, of snail and owl and wind again.

“The rain is soft. The snail is slow. The owl is high. The wind will go. The beetle’s home. The dew is here. And I am here, and you are near.”

Pip did not say, “What’s that?” at all. He curled up smaller than a ball. His spines went soft. His nose went in. He made a sound. The sound was thin,

and it was small, and it was deep, the sound a hedgehog makes asleep. The rain came soft. The snail went slow. And Dot hummed on, and low, and low.