The Garden That Planted Itself

All summer Alice grows a perfect garden alone, by the ruler — not one weed, not one crooked path, not one guest. Until a hedgehog tumbles into the greenhouse and starts digging, dragging and wrecking the beds; and the less perfect the garden becomes, the more people come running to play in it.

The village empties for the summer, and in the old greenhouse at the end of the street Alice is left alone. The garden turns out exemplary: edging along a taut string, beds by the ruler, not a single weed — and not a single guest. Straightening that same edging for the third time, Alice hears a rustle: a hedgehog has tumbled under the netting, and she names him Sprout on the spot. The hedgehog digs, drags leaves, knocks over the watering can and turns the neat beds into hills overnight. Alice restores it all to the plan — and by the next day the garden is dug up again. Then a storm brings down a section of the greenhouse, and instead of the plan Alice builds a crooked shelter out of the wreckage. The banging brings Aya from next door, then Grisha, then two more: not to pity anyone, but to watch the hedgehog and climb the den. By the end of summer the garden is thoroughly uneven and thoroughly full of people. Alice raises the rake over the last bed — and lowers it. And carries Sprout to the forest: a wild thing belongs in the woods.