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."

"Yes, but those stories and tales aren't worth anything. No, the real ones come all by themselves. They come knocking at my forehead and say, 'Here I am!' "

"Will there be a knock soon?" the little boy asked. His mother laughed as she put the elder tea in the pot and poured hot water over it.

"Tell me a story! Tell me a story!"

"I would if a story would come of itself. But that kind of thing is very particular. It only comes when it feels like it. Wait!" he said suddenly. "There is one! Look! There's one in the teapot now!"

And the little boy looked toward the teapot. He saw the lid slowly raise itself and fresh white elder flowers come forth from it. They shot long branches even out of the spout and spread them abroad in all directions, and they grew bigger and bigger until there was the most glorious elderbush - really a big tree! The branches even stretched to the little boy's bed and thrust the curtains aside - how fragrant its blossoms were! And right in the middle of the tree there sat a sweet-looking old woman in a very strange dress. It was green, as green as the leaves of the elder tree, and it was trimmed with big white elder blossoms; at first one couldn't tell if this dress was cloth or the living green and flowers of the tree.

"What is this woman's name?" asked the little boy.

"Well, the Romans and the Greeks," said the old man, "used to call her a 'Dryad,' but we don't understand that word. Out in New Town, where the sailors live, they have a better name for her. There she is called 'Elder Tree

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