The Denoons arrived in the Pictou Library. Pictou crawled along the floor, stood up and walked unstably at the same time, squealing delightfully.

Port Hawkesbury approached the librarian. “Where’s the children’s section?” she asked her. “I want a little quiet space for my son.” “It’s right at the back of the library.” “Merci,” Port Hawkesbury thanked the librarian in French, and the Denoons set off towards the children’s section. Along the way, Pictou stumbled and landed on top of a beanbag. “Huh?” His eyes darted confusedly around himself, then he laughed joyfully. “Aw,” Port Hawkesbury cooed to him. Picking him up, she plopped him down on a soft cushion in a comfortable corner. Pictou squealed delightfully again. Port Hawkesbury went over to a shelf and pondered over it a little, humming sweetly.

A few moments later, she picked out a book called ‘The Sailors’. She took it over to Pictou and sat down beside him, with Stellarton sitting opposite her.

On seeing the book, Pictou squealed with joy. “You might like this book,” Port Hawkesbury told him, showing him the book. Pictou read the title. “What’s a sailor?” he asked. “Well, a sailor is someone who explores the sea,” Stellarton explained. “Ah.” “Reading feeds your brain, Pictou,” Port Hawkesbury told him, and he laughed again. “Mmm-hmm,” he agreed, nodding.

Port Hawkesbury opened the book, and Pictou read the first page. “That’s good, Picky-tou.” Pictou then read the second page. “Good boy,” Stellarton praised him. “You’re doing very well.”

Port Hawkesbury turned to the third page, which Pictou read, and he then read the fourth page. Port Hawkesbury stroked him tenderly. “You’re a lovely little dear.” “Yeah,” Pictou agreed.

With the help – and praise – of Port Hawkesbury and Stellarton, Pictou continued to read the book, all the way down to the very last word. “What a good little sweetie you are,” Port Hawkesbury praised him joyfully when he’d finished the book, and he squealed with great bliss. Stellarton jotted down some notes on today in his notebook.

Port Hawkesbury re-shelved Pictou’s book and picked him up, touching and stroking him sweetly. “We’ve got even more books at home,” said Stellarton. “We can continue with teaching Pictou to read back there.” With that, the Denoons left the library and headed back home.


Strolling beside the seaside in the gloriously warm sunset, the Denoons basked in the glittering beauty of the dusky sea, Port Hawkesbury carrying Pictou in her arms. Suddenly, they caught sight of the silhouette of a young fiddler playing a sweet melody in the distance. Pictou picked up on the song. “Let’s go meet that fiddler,” he suggested. “Alrightie, my dearie.” Port Hawkesbury stroked him so caringly.

The Denoons approached the fiddler, who spotted them and immediately stopped playing. “Hello,” Port Hawkesbury greeted him, carefully placing Pictou down on the ground. “I’m Port Hawkesbury.” “And I’m Stellarton,” Stellarton introduced himself.

The fiddler looked down at Pictou, who was crawling around on the ground, squealing delightfully. “And who’s this little one?” he asked Port Hawkesbury. “Pictou. My son.” “Pictou,” the fiddler repeated, and he made a kind sound.

Pictou looked up at the fiddler. “I wanna hear you play,” he said. The fiddler nodded, and he began to play his fiddle again. Pictou wobbled to his feet and began to dance a little Scottish jig, his legs trembling like jelly, falling down often so that he had to keep getting back up. Port Hawkesbury and Stellarton laughed, and the fiddler smiled.

Suddenly, Pictou relieved himself, and the fiddler, catching a whiff of ammonia in the air, immediately ceased playing again. Port Hawkesbury looked down at Pictou, then at the fiddler. “Pictou needs changing,” she reasoned. “Not gonna do it in front of me, then?” asked the fiddler, then he laughed. “No,” Port Hawkesbury replied.

Pictou’s ammonia stench was now getting stronger. Port Hawkesbury picked him up. “We have to get home quickly.” “Alright. Pictou’s a little loveliness,” the fiddler called Pictou. “Aw,” Port Hawkesbury cooed.

“Goodbye,” said the fiddler, and the Denoons bid farewell back. The fiddler began to play his fiddle once again, and the Denoons strolled back home, Pictou stinking of ammonia.

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