Brindle was a tiny hedgehog with very tidy prickles. Each morning he polished them with a soft leaf, rub-rub, tickle-tick. If mud waited on the path, he went the long way round. "Not today, mud," he whispered.
One dewy morning, a fat brown splodge sat beside his favourite log. Brindle tiptoed, tiptoe, tiptoe, but his paw squelched right in. "Oh no!" he squeaked, and tucked his nose down small.
Then he noticed a puddle under the grass. It was not muddy at all. It was glowing and sparkling, with sky-blue light wobbling on top. How mysterious!
Brindle dipped one prickle. Plip! The dirt slid away, and the prickle turned blue with one tiny gold dot. He dipped the rest. Splish-splash! His prickles sparkled with blue stars and golden freckles. "Wow," breathed Brindle.
⁂
All morning, Brindle visited the puddle. When grass leaned over it, his prickles turned green stripes. When berries bobbed above it, red spots popped out, pop-pop-pop. By teatime, sunset made purple swirls.
Brindle looked at his back and blinked. "But I loved the blue stars best," he said. He stepped closer, and the puddle wobbled orange. "Oh dear, not again."
Pip the snail slid by, slow and shiny, leaving a silver trail. "That puddle paints what it sees," said Pip. "If you keep stepping in, it keeps painting."
Brindle sat very still. His paws stopped patter-pattering. Above the puddle, the evening sky grew deep blue, and the first star peeped out. "Now," whispered Brindle. Settle, sparkle, stay.
He dipped once. Only once. Plip! Blue spread softly over his prickles, and little gold stars twinkled in tidy rows. Then Brindle climbed onto an enormous dry leaf and waited while the sparkles set.
At last, Pip tapped a feeler on one prickle. Tick! Dry. Brindle gave a tiny round laugh and wiggled his nose. His prickles were just the way he loved.
That night, Brindle curled beneath the log, neat and warm. Outside, the puddle went plip-plip in the moonlight. Brindle did not polish at all. He just sighed, tucked in his paws, and slept.
