. . .

Hans glares at the wooden boy as Hans’ beard, slowly, catches fire. Then the dwarf sets his jaw grimly in a smith-work. The fire falls into a dolorous wheel, becomes trapped there, and is banished to a distant sun.

The last smolders fade away with a fervent haste.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” rages Hans. “I told you you were just a wooden boy!”

“I couldn’t help it!” says the little wooden boy. “There wasn’t jam!”

“There never —!”

Hans masters himself. He sighs.

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