CHAPTER I.


The care of a large family is no light matter, as everybody knows. And
that year I had an unusually large family. No less than seven young
urchins for Mrs. Hedgehog and myself to take care of and start in life;
and there was not a prickly parent on this side of the brook, or within
three fields beyond, who had more than four.

My father's brother had six one year, I know. It was the summer that I
myself was born. I can remember hearing my father and mother talk about
it before I could see. As these six cousins were discussed in a tone of
interest and respect which seemed to bear somewhat disparagingly on me
and my brother and sisters (there were only four of _us_), I was rather
glad to learn that they also had been born blind. My father used to go
and see them, and report their progress to my mother on his return.

"They can see to-day."

"They have curled themselves up. Every one of them. Six beautiful little
balls; as round as crab-apples and as safe as burrs!"

I tried to curl myself up, but I could only get my coat a little way
over my nose. I cried with vexation. But one should not lose heart too
easily. With patience and perseverance most things can be brought about,
and I could soon both see and curl myself into a ball. It was about this
time that my father hurried home one day, tossing the leaves at least
three inches over his head as he bustled along.

"What in the hedge do you think has happened to the six?" said he.