Many a Wednesday ago in the
Calabash country there lived a poor
shepherd boy named Peter. His
parents were rich because they
lived off the earnings that Peter brought home
and besides they were not his real parents any-
way. They were what is known in all fairy stories
as stepparents.

There are good stepparents and bad steppar-
ents. The bad ones are usually cruel and eat all

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the child’s jelly crackers and lie around the house
looking at TV, while the child goes out to work
in a coal mine or some other dingy place that pays
well. The good stepparents dress the child in
pretty laces and ribbons and silk stockings and
let the child’s hair grow long and golden, then they
die leaving the child an estate in the country and
a bank in a big city within easy walking distance
of a subway.

But it is a fact, alas, that Peter’s stepparents
were the former type, who put turtles in his bed,
tied knots in his shoelaces and ate his jelly crack-
ers. It is also a fact that Peter’s stepparents were
burglars, reformed because Peter’s wages as a
shepherd boy were highest scale in the union
and they lived very high on the Hog.

The Hog was a hill to the east of town that
commanded a fine view of the sunset and the
squalid huts of honest people who lived in the
valley below. These were mostly office workers
and clerks who did not make as fine a take-home
pay each week as Peter did. The parents of these
people lived on dandelion greens and vinegar
which was, in those days, a mere seven dollars a
pound. They did not have TV but had to content

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themselves with reading the classics bound in
leather. They were underprivileged.

There was one other peculiarity about Peter’s
parents, and this unusual fact made him suspect
something was wrong. Indeed, it led him to the
discovery that his stepparents were not really
his own true father and mother. This happened
when Peter learned to count.

As soon as Peter found out how to count up
to three or four he decided to count his parents.
He counted once and got up to three. This sur-
prised him; most of the boys he knew had just
two parents. They had a father and a mother,
one of each, all neat and understandable. It
seemed a little strange to Peter that he had
three parents.

He counted again during the boxing matches
on TV while they weren’t paying attention. One
was in the velvet chair with the tassels, one was
in the leather chair with the beer stains, and one
was lying on the couch with the Sunday papers.
Peter looked around carefully. That was all, he
was sure. The room had no more places to sit or
lie. Except the floor. And Peter was alone on
the floor.

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In a way, Peter was surprised, of course, but
he was even a little more pleased. He had more
parents than anybody. Another note of distinc-
tion that he appreciated was that all of them
were men. Peter had seen some women one time
and they had frightened him a little when they
made soft cooing sounds and tried to hug him
and kiss him.

He was glad that he had a man for a mother,
and looking at the three great bearded oafs lol-
ling about, he wondered which one it was. Was
it the red-headed man with the blue beard, the
blue-haired man with the pink beard, or the
green-bearded, bald-headed man with the patch
on one eye? It was too much for him. He cuddled
up and went to sleep on the floor, wrapped in
the funny papers. It was how he usually slept.

The next morning as the three parents sent
him off to work, they told Peter, “Now, don’t
go crying WOLF again today. Lou try that a
little more and we’ll all be out of a job.”

Peter thanked them and hustled down the hill,
through the muddy streets of the village, and
back up the hill on the other side of town to the
west. There he started looking around for a few

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sheep to herd. lie looked in the trees; no sheep.
He looked in the lake; none were swimming. He
went and poked in a gopher hole. The gopher
came out and said, “How many times do I have
to tell you we don’t keep sheep in here?”

“I’m sorry,” said Peter, crestfallen, and pulled
at his forelock.

“Stop pulling at my forelock, too,” cried the
gopher. “Tou’ll recall that I won it from you
last week in a pinochle game.”

“Tessir, I’ll take good care of it,” replied Peter
respectfully. He wandered away trying to think
of some place else where he could search for a
few sheep to herd. At last he decided that the
best thing to do was to call them. This was an
extremely tricky business because poor Peter
couldn’t say the word “sheep.” Every time he
howled out what he thought was “sheep” it came
out “wolf.”

Now, don’t for a moment think this is impos-
sible. Remember that this was a foreign country
and that other languages sound different. For
example, the word for “cat” in French is “livre.”
That is why cats like what we call liver in Eng-
lish. Cats are notoriously poor spellers. Tou

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holler out “livre” in this country and you’ll find
cats flocking around with maybe a few cops
thrown in.

Nonetheless, knowing the problem, Peter de-
cided to chance it. He reared back and cried out
in a great voice: “WOLF!” There was no im-
mediate answer. A goldfinch stopped battling
with a cobra long enough to stare at him in sur-
prise, and then the cobra and the goldfinch
looked at each other and shook their heads.
“Cheese!” whispered the cobra. “That kid! Let’s
knock off and see what’s doing in the Garden of
Eden. The chicken chow mein there is delicious.”

Peter tried again: “WOLF!”

There was a rustling in the oleanders. Out
popped the game warden, who was actually an
out-of-work octopus. During the summer sea-
son the Octopus was the lifeguard at the beach.
His record for drownings and near-drownings
was the best in the annals of the sport. During
the winter, or at about half past six, he worked
as a game warden on a free-lance basis:

“Are you crying WOLF?” asked the Octo-
pus. “Because if you are I’ll have to put the arm
on you.”

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“No,” replied Peter civilly, “I’m crying
sheep.”

“I’ve a friend who cries cockles and mussels,”
mused the Octopus, “but he is a balladeer and
doesn’t count. Anyway you can’t cry sheep or
wolves on Wednesday. I’m afraid I’ll have to
put the arm on you.”

Peter frowned. “Yesterday was Wednesday.”

The Octopus gave a disparaging chuckle with
one tentacle and observed, “And tomorrow will
be Wednesday too and the day after and the day
after that. Come along quiet now.”

“Which arm are you going to put on me?”
asked Peter.

“Why, I’d never thought of that,” exclaimed
the Octopus, gazing down at several of his arms.
“Let’s see, this one hasn’t done any work in a
long time, hut it’s not warmed up . . . and this
one is good against a left-hander . . . but this one
is better at the grapple . . . though this one is . . .”
and the Octopus fell into a mumbling examina-
tion of his arms, feeling some and pinching
others, reviewing their good points and bad
points.

“Above all,” cried Peter as he disappeared

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into the huckleberry bushes, “you must be fair.”
The Octopus sighed deeply and agreed in-
wardly. It is not easy to be an octopus. He fell
to counting his arms and, not counting the one
he was counting with, fell into a swoon of alarm
at the discovery that he had but seven.

“I wonder why every day is Wednesday?”
said Peter to himself as he sought another van-
tage point from which to call his sheep.

Finally, emerging from the thickets onto a
knoll, he took a deep breath and cried : “W OLF !”
Immediately three wolves bounded from the
forest, their teeth gleaming in broad grins. “Tou
called us, sir?” queried the First.

“No, I called ‘SHEEP,’ ” said Peter.

“Can’t you tell sheep from wolves?” asked the
Second Wolf.

“Well, actually,” said Peter, “I’ve never seen
any of either, but you look like wolves.”

“Silly boy,” said the Third, “we’re the best
type sheep you’ve ever seen.”

“In fact, the only,” added the First.

“The thing for you to do, boy, is to not herd
us sheep up here in the hills. "Vbu should save
yourself work. Take us home with you . . . save

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yourself rushing out to work in the morning.
Work at home!” cried the Second, a friendly
arm around Peter’s shoulders.

Peter considered. “I’ll do it if you’ll tell me
why every day is Wednesday.”

The wolves looked at each other and the Third
Wolf said to Peter, “Come on, we’ll explain it
to you as we walk home. What’s for dinner?”
As they walked through the lazy afternoon
toward Hog Hill the wolves explained that all
the Wednesdays had come about when the Early
Great Calendar Maker had decided to name the
days after his father, mother, uncles and brother.
One was named Sam Wednesday, possibly his
mother, another was named George Wednesday,
another Harry, etc.

“It would have looked pretty silly, calling the
first day of the week Sam,” said the First Wolf,
“now wouldn’t it?”

“Ws,” agreed Peter, “and I’d have felt even
worse going to work on George. That would have
made the first work day even worse.”

“Besides,” explained the Second Wolf, “there
was the matter of justice and fair play to be con-
sidered.”

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“Naturally, naturally,” nodded the Third
Wolf. “How would you feel if you had a cousin
named Winchley, for example, and he was given
preference over you for the name of, say, the
FIRST day of the week? How would you feel?”
“Terrible, terrible,” said Peter. “Imagine go-
ing to church on Winchley-for-Example.”

“Not all that,” quickly explained the Third
Wolf. “Just plain Winchley.”

“Even worse,” agreed Peter. “Just-Plain-
Winchley would not be one of my favorite days.”
“Well,” said the First Wolf with a resigned
air, “that’s why everything is named Wednes-
day.”

“Why?” asked Peter.

“Because they didn’t want to hurt anybody’s
feelings,” cried the Second Wolf. “The days were
all named Wednesday after Harry, George, Sam
and all like that, all of whom had Wednesday
for a last name. It made everything fair and
square.”

“The King drew the line when it came to nam-
ing the months Wednesday too,” added the Third
Wolf. “He insisted on naming them Friday, be-
cause that was his day off. He named them all
Friday. So you can guess when he works.”

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ir.lAI

By this time the four had arrived at the house
on Hog Hill. Peter swung the door open. “After
you, gents,” he said politely. The wolves went in.
The three stepparents were watching the ball
game and eating Peter’s jelly crackers.

“Dear Parents,” cried Peter after they were
all inside, “I’ve brought the sheep home.”

“Yeah,” said the First Wolf, helping himself
to a jelly cracker. “What’s the score, Mac?”
Sleepily the bald-headed parent with the green
beard and the black patch said, “You can’t bring
sheep in the house, son.”

“You’re exactly right,” interposed the Second
Wolf, and he looked under the black patch.
There was a perfectly good eye under there and
it stared back at him with a dawning terror.
“Quoik!” cried the green beard. “WOLVES!”
“Wolves!” cried the red-headed parent with
the blue beard.

“WOLVES!” cried the blue-haired parent
with the pink beard.

Then they all dashed out the door and straight
down the hill, knocking over old ladies, upset-
ting baby carriages, and scaring chickens.
“WOLVES!” they cried. “WOLVES!”

The Octopus was waiting for them at the bot-

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tom of the hill. His mind was made up. He knew
which arms to use. The offense of the three par-
ents was even worse than Peter’s. They were
crying more than one wolf. They were plural
wolf criers. Quickly the long eight arms of the
law reached out and grabbed the terror-stricken
wolf criers. He popped them into a waiting
police van and they were taken off to the King’s
Dungeon.

Peter was somewhat surprised at the sudden
departure of his stepparents, but being a good
sport, all he said was, “I always thought they
liked it here.”

The wolves turned out to be fine sheep to herd.
None of them liked to sleep anywhere except on
the floor, so Peter had the couch and both chairs.
Also they turned in the television set for a sleigh
and Peter had many a fine ride through town
with the wolves hauling away. They borrowed
many books from their neighbors and in return
gave them jelly crackers. Soon the four of them
knew so much that they added a day to the week
of Wednesdays.

They called it THE END.

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