“I’m getting too old to tend the garden,”

the king said. “Here is a husband for you—

he will fetch your strawberries.”

The princess stomped her foot and replied

if she must have a husband,

she would rather marry the fox,

who at least knew where the sweetest berries grew.

And so she ran out of the palace

and into the woods, on and on

until a pebble in her shoe forced her to stop.

But it was not a pebble at all—

it was the king’s head, shrunk to the size of a pea.

“Put me in your pocket,”

the king pleaded, “and take me away with you.”

Horrified, the princess threw the king’s head down

and ran on. But she had not gone far

before she had to stop again,

and this time when she shook out her shoe,

it was the head of her husband that said:

“Please put me in your pocket

so that I may love you wherever you go.”

The princess threw his head down, too,

and ran faster; but before long her shoe stopped her

for the third time. And this time

it was her own head she held in her hands.

Since you’ve barged in, Mr. Jones,

the least you can do is close the door.

There’s a chill; I believe I’ve caught it.

Just what I wanted to talk to you about,

Miss Jennings. This cold spell—

it’ll kill the last of the crops

if we don’t get them in soon.