once there was a little boy who went out and got his feet wet and caught cold. nobody could understand how it had happened, because the weather was very dry.
his mother undressed him, put him to bed, and had the tea urn brought in to make him a good cup of elder tea, for that keeps one warm.
at the same time there came in the door the funny old man who lived all alone on the top floor of the house. he had no wife or children of his own, but he was very fond of all children, and knew so many wonderful stories and tales that it was fun to listen to him.
"now drink your tea," said the little boy's mother, "and then perhaps there'll be a story for you."
"yes," nodded the old man kindly, "if i could only think of a new one! but tell me, how did the young man get his feet wet?" he asked.
"yes, where did he?" said the mother. "nobody can imagine how."
"will you tell me a fairy tale?" the little boy asked.
"yes, but i must know something first. can you tell me as nearly as possible how deep the gutter is in the little street where you go to school?"
"just halfway up to my top boots," answered the little boy. "that is," he added, "if i stand in the deep hole."
"that's how we got our feet wet," said the old man. "now, i certainly ought to tell you a story, but i don't know any more."
"you can make one up right away," the little boy said. "mother says that everything you look at can be turned into a story, and that you can make a tale of everything you touch."
