(prompts: 'save' July 23, and 'quiet' July 30)

I'm certain that even my great-great-Grandmother would have admitted total amazement, despite her love and unshakable belief in all things fey, and fairy, and fantastic—no matter how improbable or seemingly impossible.

A talking Goosey Goosey Gander would have been perfectly acceptable to a wondrous imagination like hers, even when that all-powerful little Sandman, Ole Lukøje, transformed the bedroom into a forest of sorts, with trees laden with glorious flowers and shimmering fruits... simultaneously! Ahh, but the aromas... and the sweetness of the fruit!?!

But when moans and groans, snorts and snowks began issuing from small Hjalmar's desk...

and they came from his homework slate-board;

and they came from his hand-writing copy-book —

THEN the mightiest imaginations were stretched way beyond limits.

It was clearly understood what a 'happenstance' this was, when even Ole Lukøje said, with a monumental grunt, "Alas and alack, I fear the worst!"

The slate's extreme distress had come about because of a wrong sum on the numbers side of the board. When Ole looked closely, he was sure he didn't imagine a crack beginning to creep its furtive way across the board. Despite serious tugging by the soap-stone pencil tied to it by a long string, it stubbornly threatened to fall clean in two... such was the power of its shame at yet another mistake by little Hjalmar. Now the soap-stone pencil was groaning too (you see, it had fancied itself as some kind of 'guide dog' who would lead his owner down smoother paths). Ole Lukøje was grateful to see NOTHING on the writing side of the slate, and heaved a great sigh as he realised the rest of tonight's homework was writing cursive (or 'grown-up handwriting') in his copy-book.

Ole's heart sank again as he realised the piteous wailing, almost overpowering all other unhappiness, did indeed issue from inside the copy-book! He opened it tentatively, afraid of what he would find. A great 'AAaarrgh' was forced out of him (although he had no pirate ancestry that he knew of). It was the letters Hjalmar had written under each perfectly formed line of capitals and smalls, the ones that his were meant to copy. Some hung out over their sloping guide-lines like a rough row of drunken sailors, others simply hung on for all they were worth. Still others again had fallen almost completely over, saved only by the line beneath them acting like a net to prevent them from falling to the bottom of the page... maybe even right off and into—well, who knows WHAT fate could await?

"There's nothing for it, then, you poor, wretched letters, you MUST be scratched out, yet again!" Ole hated to say these words, but he could think of nothing else to make peace; to keep the quiet demanded of perfect sleep.

Quicker than the quiver of a bee's whisker, Hjalmar's wayward letters first stood to absolute attention, and then gracefully leant to the exact angle to mirror their examples... a genuine pleasure to look at and read.

The only tragedy was that this had all been one of the dreams tucked into Ole Lukøje's rainbow umbrella, and when Hjalmar woke in the morning, they were as higgledy-piggledy and hocus-pocus as ever they had been. But don't despair! The little boy had learned a valuable lesson, and in the same amazing fashion, his work began its journey on the improvement path, and before his school year was over, he was ready to create lovely words from the letters, and the very next year, embarked on carefully placing the words together to make wondrous stories.

And Ole Lukøje would return time and time again, to sprinkle his sleep sand and open his umbrella dreams to encourage, and teach, and delight yet another small soul. After all, wasn't he known in high places, as —

Ole Lukøje, the Dream God?

Pronunciation of Names :

Ole Lukøje — Ole (like cola) Luk (like Luke) øje (like destroyer)

Hjalmar — Hj (like Y in yellow) al (like pal) mar (as written)

For explanations of maybe unknown olde days words (like slate-board and copy-book), you'll have to see previous three weeks' 'flashers'. It's a terrible thing, to be sure, to be sure, to have to repeat myself, over and over again.)

Author's Note: This is the last part of this particular story. Now, don't cry and fuss. Next time you see it, I hopefully plan for it to be a small book about the little known stories of Hans Christian Andersen. The little girl reader of the ongoing story is enthralled, and hanging out to share her great-great-Granny's love of fairy tales in particular.