Isla and the Tune Pot

"I miss Grandad's whistle," said Isla.

She sat on an upturned bucket in the garden shed. Flowerpots were stacked all around her, and no two were the same. Grandad was away at Auntie Jo's until Sunday. Every morning he watered the beans and whistled one wobbly tune. Now the garden was quiet, and Isla wanted that tune back.

First she tried to whistle it herself. Only air came out. Pffff.

Then she ran to the top of the hill and called, "Grandad! Whistle!" Nothing came back but a cow.

By evening the fog rolled in, thick and white, the way it did. It kept whatever was left in it until morning. Everybody knew that. Last week Mum's lost glove had sat out in it all night, and at breakfast there it was, hanging on the gate.

Isla looked at the fog. She looked at the pots.

"Hmm," she said.

She could not whistle, but she could hum. She picked the biggest pot, the blue one with a chip, and hummed Grandad's tune right into it. Hum-de-hum-de-hummm. Then she put a saucer over the top and set the pot on the step, out in the fog.

Something rustled. A hedgehog came snuffling by, hunting for beetles. It had no interest in tunes. It poked its nose at the little hole in the bottom of the pot and sniffed.

"Ah-CHOO!"

"Oh no," whispered Isla. "You sneezed in it."

The hedgehog trundled off, very pleased with its beetles. Isla went to bed.

In the morning the fog was thin as a cobweb. Isla ran out in her slippers and sat on the step. She lifted the saucer.

Out floated the tune, soft and slow, Grandad's wobbly tune. Hum-de-hum-de-hummm. And right in the middle, small and prickly, came a sneeze. Ah-choo!

Isla laughed so hard she nearly dropped the pot. Then she held it in her lap, warm from the first sun, and hummed along.