“I could tell,” said Sarah. A year later their child was born.
Sarah named him Stanley because she noticed that “Stanley” was “Yelnats” spelled backward.
Sarah changed the words of the pig lullaby so that they rhymed, and every night she sang it to little Stanley.
“If only, if only,” the woodpecker sighs, “The bark on the tree was as soft as the skies.”
While the wolf waits below, hungry and lonely, Crying to the moo—oo—oon, “If only, if only.”
Stanley’s hole was as deep as his shovel, but not quite wide enough on the bottom.
He grimaced as he sliced off a chunk of dirt, then raised it up and flung it onto a pile.
He laid his shovel back down on the bottom of his hole and, to his surprise, it fit.
He rotated it and only had to chip off a few chunks of dirt, here and there, before it could lie flat across his hole in every direction.
He heard the water truck approaching, and felt a strange sense of pride
at being able to show Mr. Sir, or Mr. Pendanski, that he had dug his first hole.
He put his hands on the rim and tried to pull himself up. He couldn’t do it.
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