A few days later he squiggled his portrait from the tip of my etching tool.
A week later he told me his tale in rhyme:
There once was an elf called Barnaby Bittle, he wasn’t very large, he wasn’t very little, he lived alone in the forest, alone with his fiddle, he loved a little jig, he loved a little riddle, but he felt a bit alone, he felt a bit brittle, till he met a little fairy with a twirl and a twiddle, Barnaby didn’t dawdle, Barnaby didn’t diddle, he professed all his love, there was no middle, they live happily after now, the fairy and her Bittle, sitting front porch she dances, as Barnaby whittles.
