The naughty boy

A long time ago, there lived an old poet, a thoroughly kind old poet. As he was sitting one evening in his room, a dreadful storm arose without, and the rain streamed down from heaven; but the old poet sat warm and comfortable in his chimney-comer, where the fire blazed and the roasting apple hissed. Those who have not a roof over their heads will be wetted to the skin, said the good old poet. Oh let me in! Let me in! I am cold, and I'm so wet! exclaimed suddenly a child ...