What Will Wembley Wear?

[Mary Louise]

The idea for this came to me years ago, when I was in my twenties. It’s loosely based on a story I read when I was a kid.

What Will Wembley Wear?​

Winter was here. Wembley could tell by the way his nose tingled when he stuck it out from under the covers. “Brrr!” he said, sticking it back underneath. “Gobo, what do you think we should do today?”

There was no answer. Wembley stuck his nose out again and repeated the question, wondering if his voice had been muffled by the blankets. “Gobo?” He climbed down his ladder and went over to Gobo’s bed.

It was empty. Even Gobo’s guitar was gone. Then Wembley saw a piece of paper lying on top of the pillow. On it were the words “Gone to the Singing Caverns. Back this afternoon. See you. Gobo.”

“Gee,” thought Wembley. “He even took his guitar. Maybe because he went to the Singing Caverns. I bet he just wanted to play some music to sing along to.” He stopped, then scratched his head. “Or did he want to play music for the caverns to sing along to?”

Wembley shook his head, which was starting to hurt from trying to figure who would be doing the singing, then sighed. The Singing Caverns were a long way off. Gobo's note said he wouldn’t be back until this afternoon. Meanwhile, there was no one to give him an idea of what to do this morning. His nose began to tingle again, along with his tail. He paced about for a minute, then stood frozen in the middle of the room, wondering whether he should light a fire or just get back into bed and wait for Gobo.

“Woohoo!” a voice called from down a tunnel. “Some day for skating, huh, Tosh? I can’t believe the pond is frozen solid at last.”

“Yeah,” came Tosh’s voice. “Come on, Lou, let’s go! Beastie’s been waiting all year.”

“Does Beastie even know how to skate?” Their voices faded out as the sound of their footsteps died away.

“Wow!” shouted Wembley, unfreezing. “Skating! Great idea. Thanks, guys!” He reached for his turtleneck sweater, taking only three quarters of a minute to decide which of his two banana-tree shirts to button over it. “I always knew Lou was a good friend,” he said to himself as he put on his earmuffs. Slinging his skates over his shoulder, he dashed out of the room and started down the tunnel.

It didn’t take long to reach the Great Hall’s pond, which had indeed frozen solid. Wembley could see Lou, Tosh, and Beastie, her beast, skating pirouettes and figure eights. “Come join us, Boober!” Large Marvin was shouting as he did a graceful backward glide, then reached into his pocket for a handful of crackers. In spite of his huge girth, Marvin was a fine athlete. He had been known on more than one occasion to beat Red in swimming competitions. And that was saying something.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” Boober called back. “You’ll catch your death of pneumonia skating in this weather. Look at how the pond froze solid overnight! I can't remember when it’s been this cold. This is a brutal winter.” So saying, Boober picked up his laundry basket. “I’m going to make a fire so I can melt some ice to get these socks washed, then another so they’ll dry properly.”

“Aw, who cares about boring old laundry?” said Marvin, reaching for another cracker. “Come skate!”

“What kind of masochist do you think I am?” retorted Boober as he walked off. “You’ll regret this, all of you! It’s cold enough to freeze your winnebago.”

Wembley froze in his tracks. “C-cold enough to freeze your winnebago?” he whispered. “Pneumonia? Oh, no! And here I thought skating was such a great idea. I guess I should have known better. Maybe I’ll just go back to my room and make a fire.”

Back down the tunnel toward his room he started. But halfway there, he stopped short. “Marvin didn’t seem to think it was too cold to skate,” he told himself. “And he was skating, so he must be right! Or... is it Boober who’s right? Boober knows all about disease and death. Or is Marvin right? Or Boober? Or... oh, why can’t I decide who's right? I’m such a wembler! And all I wanted was to have a little skate on the pond.” Wembley wished more than ever that Gobo were around. He always had good advice, especially when Wembley couldn’t decide about something.

Wembley turned around and started off in the other direction. At the entrance to Great Hall, he stopped, trying to see if Large Marvin showed any signs of pneumonia yet. And it was then that he happened to look up and remember who lived just above the Great Hall: Mokey. Maybe she could help. “Mokey always has great advice, too,” he thought. “Once, when I didn’t know what job I wanted, she helped me decide that I didn’t want it to be gathering radishes. I just hope she’s home.” And Wembley hurried up to the doorway of the cozy cave that Mokey shared with Red, her best friend.

Red wasn’t home, but Wembley was glad to see that Mokey was, sitting quietly before a blazing fire and writing something in a book. “Why, hello, Wembley,” she said. “Come in and make yourself comfortable. You’re just in time.”

“In time?” said Wembley, sitting gratefully by the fire. “In time for what?”

“For my latest poem,” Mokey explained. “I’ve just finished composing it.”

“Really?” said Wembley. Mokey was always writing poetry, about everything from radishes to clouds to the full moon. It never ceased to amaze Wembley how easily Mokey could find inspiration in the ordinary, take everyday words, and put them together in a way that sounded almost like music.

“Yes,” said Mokey dreamily. “It came to me when I was meditating in the Gorgs’ garden this morning. You should have seen how it looked... all the trees bare, covered with frost, with the few leaves left being whipped from the branches. It looked like another world.” She opened the book and began to read:

“Icy winds and snows of winter.
Every tree looks like a splinter.
Icy frosts, leaves a-tossed
by the wintry winds of winter.”​

“Gee!” said Wembley. “I like that. Thanks, Mokey.”

Mokey seemed to be only half-listening. Her eyes had taken on that faraway look that said she was beginning to get inspired. “Perhaps my next poem will be about what trees would wear in winter.”

“That sounds great,” said Wembley. Secretly, though, as much as he liked the poem, he almost wished that Mokey hadn’t read it. The talk of snow and icy winds reminded him of Boober’s speech about it being “cold enough to freeze your winnebago.”

Boober’s warnings reminded Wembley why he had come. “Mokey, I need your advice,” he said.

“Of course.” Mokey was always ready to help someone in need, be that someone a Fraggle, a Doozer, or a Gorg. “What can I help you with?”

“Well, you see, it’s like this...” And Wembley explained how he had decided to skate today, how he had overheard Boober’s warnings about pneumonia, and how Large Marvin had just brushed them off. “He didn’t show any signs of pneumonia,” Wembley finished. “But then again, Boober knows all about disease and death! And I heard him say he can’t remember when it’s been this cold. Mokey, I don’t know who to believe. I want to skate. But what if Boober’s right? What if I do catch my death on the ice?”

“Poor little Wembley,” said Mokey, more to herself than to him. “You know, I do believe Boober’s right. This does seem like the coldest winter we’ve had in a long time.” She walked over to a window and gazed out at the Great Hall. “Last night, the pond was so rippling and beautiful. And now look at it—frozen solid! It does take a bitter cold snap to do that.”

“Oh, no,” moaned Wembley. “That means I can’t go skating. If I do, I’ll catch my death out there! Boober said so.”

“There, there, Wembley.” Mokey laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Just because it’s cold enough to freeze your winnebago doesn’t mean you can’t go skating.”

“It doesn’t?” said Wembley. “W-what do you mean, Mokey?”

“It’s all a matter of being prepared,” Mokey replied. “Out in the garden, even in that bitter cold, I managed to achieve a state of peace and tranquility for a full ten minutes. It’s all about what you bring to it.”

“Bring to it?” echoed Wembley. “Bring to what?”

“What you bring to wherever you happen to be, of course,” sad Mokey. “Here, Wembley. I know just what you need.” So saying, Mokey opened a large box and took something out of it.

“What is it?” asked Wembley.

“An extra layer,” said Mokey.

“An extra layer?” Wembley echoed again.

“Yes,” said Mokey. “The trick to staying warm enough is to dress in layers. The more layers, the warmer you’ll be. Look.” She shook out what she was holding. It was a long cardigan, identical to the one she had on. “You see? I always wear two sweaters in winter: my cardigan and my turtleneck. You’ve only got one sweater. No wonder you were cold out in the Great Hall. Here, try this on. How fortunate that I decided to knit an extra one this fall.”

With a little help from Mokey, Wembley put on the sweater. It hung down far below his feet, since Mokey was much taller than he was, and he had to roll up the sleeves to keep them from covering his hands. But he felt a lot warmer wearing it, and he said so. “Thanks a lot, Mokey,” he said gratefully. “Now I won’t be cold!”

“You’re more than welcome,” said Mokey. “Enjoy skating!”

Wembley started back toward the Great Hall again—carefully, so he wouldn’t trip over the hem of the sweater. “This is great!” he said. “With two layers on, I can’t be cold. Skating, here I come!”

“Wembley, what are you babbling on about?” came a voice from down the tunnel.

Wembley looked up from pushing back one of the sweater’s sleeves, which had just come unrolled. “Oh, hi, Red! Great day for skating, huh?”

“Yeah,” said Red. “Nice day for a game of ice hockey, all right. But why are you wearing Mokey’s sweater?”

“Oh, she loaned me this,” Wembley explained, pushing back the other sleeve. “So I won’t be cold. Nice, huh?”

“I guess,” said Red. “If you like wearing something that’s two sizes too big for you. You always thought your turtleneck was enough in winter.”

“Oh, no, no!” said Wembley. “Not during a winter like this. It’s cold enough to freeze your winnebago. Boober said so.”

As soon as he said that, Wembley wished he hadn't. “W-what if two sweaters aren’t enough when it’s this cold? Oh, no! Red, I need something else to put on! I’d better go look for some more clothes.”

Red shook her head. “I don’t believe you, Wembley. Wearing a sweater that doesn’t fit. What’s gotten into you today?”

“But it’s an extra layer!” protested Wembley. “Two layers are warmer than one. Mokey said so. Only... what if it’s not enough? What if I need three?”

“Four, if you count your shirt,” said Red, shaking her head again. “Well, if you really want something extra, maybe I can help. Wait here.” She disappeared into the cave she and Mokey shared, then returned in a few minutes with something in her hand. “I’ve never understood why you don’t wear a hat in winter. Earmuffs only take care of your ears. You never seem to think about the rest of your head getting cold. Here, try this.” She handed him something knitted and red.

“What is it?” asked Wembley.

“An extra hat of mine,” said Red. “If that doesn’t keep you warm, nothing will. You know the saying: ‘If your feet are cold, put on your hat.’”

“Does it work?” asked Wembley.

“Sure,” said Red. “I always wear a hat when I’m skating, and my feet are always fine.”

“That’s great!” said Wembley. “Wow, learn something new every day.” He took off his earmuffs, pulled on the hat, and put his earmuffs over it. “Thanks, Red.”

“Any time,” said Red. “See you, Wembley.” She waved at him, then walked back through the door of her cave.

“Boy, oh boy!” Wembley exclaimed. “This is fantastic! First an extra sweater, and now this hat! I sure I won’t be cold now! I...” He sputtered as something long and knitted drooped over his left eye. “What was that thing?” He glanced into a frozen puddle for a better look and realized it was one of the hat’s tubes. Red liked to wear her hair in two pigtails, sticking up, and the tubes were for the pigtails to stick through.

“Oh,” said Wembley, embarrassed. “Just one of Red’s pigtail holders. Silly me. Anyway, with my head covered, now I won’t be cold. Hello, pond!” And Wembley dashed off in the direction of the Great Hall again.

As he stopped to roll up his sleeves again, he gazed dreamily down the tunnel, imagining the pond glittering enticingly at him while other Fraggles glided to and fro on the ice. Wembley took a step in the direction of the Great Hall—and immediately slipped on something soft, almost losing his balance. “What was that?” he wondered aloud, and bent down to pick up the offending object.

“Wembley, what have you got there?” called a voice from just down the tunnel. “Is it that other scarf I dropped? I was just wondering where I had... great galloping gooseberries! Wembley, what in the Rock are you wearing?”

Wembley looked up to see Boober gaping at him in bewilderment. “Oh, hi, Boober,” he said. “Just ready for a little skating.”

“Just ready for a little accident looks more like it,” said Boober. “Come over here, where I can get a better look at you.”

"Sure, Boober,” said Wembley, ambling over. “I didn’t expect to find you up here. I heard you say you had some socks to wash.”

“I do,” said Boober. “But Red’s other sweater had gotten filthy during her game of Tug-o’-Tails with Gobo yesterday. And she said she wanted next-day service. I almost forgot. So I was coming up here to deliver it. And I see you’ve found that scarf of mine I dropped the day before yesterday, while I was bringing Mokey a pair of her gloves. But why are you wearing her sweater? And Red’s hat? Don’t tell me you’re getting hypothermia!”

“No, no,” Wembley reassured him. “Nothing like that.” He handed Boober the scarf. “See, I just wanted to skate today, and it’s cold. Cold enough to freeze your winnebago. That’s what you said.”

“It certainly is,” said Boober. “But what does that have to do with Red’s hat and Mokey’s sweater?”

“Well, Mokey said that with an extra layer, I’d be warm enough,” Wembley explained. “So she loaned me her extra sweater. And then Red said that if my feet are cold, I should put on my hat. Only I don’t have a hat. So she loaned me one of hers.”

“I see,” said Boober. “So they actually loaned you clothes that don’t fit properly, thinking they would keep you from getting hypothermia on a day like this?”

“Well...” Wembley began uncertainly.

“Never mind,” Boober said, shaking his head. “I’ve got those socks to wash, and then I want to whip up a pot of frozen radish bisque to fight off those winter colds. I’ve got to remember to ask Mokey to get more frozen radishes for it. You’d better go build a fire, or you’ll catch your death.”

“Oh, I won’t catch anything,” sad Wembley, now trying to reassure himself. “After all, I’ve got an extra sweater, and now a hat! That should be plenty. Only... what if isn’t?” Wembley could feel his tail beginning to twitch with uncertainty.

“Well, if you really want something extra, you may as well wear this,” said Boober. “Lean over.” Wembley did, and Boober wrapped the scarf around the collar of Mokey’s sweater. “It ought to be washed first, after spending two days lying on the ground. But in weather like this, you can’t wait until you start coming down with something. There. That’ll at least be an extra layer for your neck. Tell if I’m tying it too tight.”

“No, it’s fine,” said Wembley—though it wasn’t. With the scarf bundled over two sweater collars, Wembley’s neck was starting to feel a little too warm. He wasn’t used to so many layers on it, even in winter. “But it’s cold enough to freeze your winnebago,” he reminded himself silently. “In this weather, you need all the layers you can get.” Aloud, he added, “Thanks, Boober. This is great. With two sweaters and a hat and a scarf, now I won’t be cold.” And off he started in the direction of the Great Hall again.

“Be sure to stop by for some radish bisque!” Boober called after him.

“Boy, oh boy, oh boy!” Wembley said to himself as he started down toward the Great Hall. “What a day! Oh, do I have good friends, to loan me all these things. This’ll be a terrific day for skating.”

But as he continued down the tunnel, he wasn’t so sure it would be. The long sweater Mokey had loaned him was getting tangled up with his feet and tripping him at every step. Whenever he got careless and moved his head a bit too far forward, the pigtail holders on Red’s hat would droop into his eyes. And as for Boober’s scarf... well, Wembley’s neck wasn’t a little too warm anymore. It was downright overheated. “But at least no one can say I’ll freeze my winnebago,” he told himself. “With all these clothes, I’ll be warm as that toast Boober serves with radish bisque.”

Comforting himself with this thought, Wembley made his way to the pond without too many more stumbles. He sat on a conveniently low rock and began to tie his skates.

“Hey!” called Large Marvin. “Hey, look at Wembley!” He glided over for a better look at the green Fraggle. “Why are you all dressed up like that, in that long sweater?”

“And with a hat under your earmuffs?” added Feenie. “Are those pieces of red spaghetti on top of it?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Marvin. “They’re pieces of spaghetti in marinara sauce.” He licked his lips. “Can I have one, please?”

“No, they’re not!” said Wembley, flipping them out of his face. “They’re Red’s pigtail holders. This is her hat. She just loaned it to me so I won’t be cold.”

“But why does your sweater hang down over your feet?” asked Feenie. “Is it to keep your skates warm so they won’t stick to the ice?”

“It’s to keep me warm!” said Wembley. “Look, it’s cold enough to freeze your winnebago. That’s why Mokey loaned me her sweater, and Red loaned me her hat, and Boober loaned me his scarf.”

“Can you really skate in that gear?” Lou asked doubtfully.

“Of course!” said Wembley, standing up. “Watch this.” He put one foot on the ice, started to lift the other, and fell flat on his face. Mokey’s sweater had been draped over the rock, and the back of it had gotten snagged on one of the stone’s points.

“Hey, are you okay?” Tosh asked, helping him up.

“Er, fine,” said Wembley, rubbing his sore nose. “I’m okay. Just watch this!” Carefully unsnagging the sweater and making sure to hold the hem up, Wembley started to glide forward. “Oh, no!” he yelled. The pigtail holders on Red’s hat had flopped into his eyes again, along with the edge of Boober’s scarf. He tripped and pitched forward—right into Tosh’s beast. The two of them crashed into a nearby wall.

“Beastie!” cried Tosh, rushing forward to hug her pet. “Are you all right?”

“Is Beastie all right?” cried Wembley. “What about me?” He started to get up, only for the tip of his right skate to get caught in the hem of Mokey’s sweater. Over he went again, this time landing flat on his back.

Lou hurried over and pulled Wembley to his feet. “I’ll get you a mosspack,” she offered, helping him off the ice. “Or did you want to see Boober?”

Before Wembley could answer, the sound of a familiar voice floated toward him from across the room. It was Red’s. Wembley looked up to see her standing a few feet away, talking to Mokey and Boober.

“That’s why I loaned him my other hat, Mokey,” Red was saying impatiently. “The same reason you loaned him your other sweater. He said he was afraid he’d be cold without some extra clothes. And then you loaned him your other scarf, Boober?”

“Well, he was talking about going skating, or something like that,” said Boober. “And not being cold. So that’s why you loaned him your sweater, Mokey?”

“Of course,” said Mokey. “It’s cold enough to freeze your winnebago, you know. Oh, look! There’s Wembley now. I wonder if he’s been skating yet?”

“Hey, Wembley!” Red called. “How’re you doing? Did that hat keep your feet warm?”

“Are you coming down with hypothermia?” Boober added anxiously. “Or...” He shuddered visibly “Maybe pneumonia?”

Lou looked over at Wembley, her eyes narrowing with confusion. “Wembley...?” she began.

“I don’t want to talk about it!” Wembley interrupted, struggling to undo the knots in his left skate. He could feel tears coming to his eyes, which were stinging almost as much as his back. “Just... I just want to be alone for a while.” He could barely see to get the other skate untied.

“But, Wembley...” Lou tried again.

“I’m all right!” Wembley yelled at Lou and his other friends. “Just leave me alone. I promise, I'm fine.” Before anyone else could say another word, Wembley had dashed down the tunnel back to his room after only eighteen more stumbles.

Once inside, he flopped down on the floor and brushed the tears from his eyes, and began rubbing his knees and elbows. “Ow!” he groaned. “I thought all these clothes were going to help me,” he muttered, brushing Red’s pigtail holders out of his eyes. “I thought skating was gonna be great.” He started to climb the ladder to his bed, then stepped on the hem of Mokey’s sweater and nearly fell off the bottom rung. Sobbing, he threw himself on Gobo’s bed.

The sound of footsteps was approaching. Was it Lou, coming to bring a mosspack after all? Or could it be Boober, wanting to check him for sprains? Or maybe it was Red or Mokey. Or maybe all four. Wembley pulled the covers over him and closed his eyes, wishing whoever it was would just stay away.

“Wembley!” said a voice. “What are you doing in my bed?”

Wembley opened his eyes to see a familiar orange Fraggle bending over him. “Go... Gobo?” he whispered. “Is it afternoon already?”

“Huh?” said Gobo, setting down his guitar.

“I found your note,” said Wembley weakly. “It said you wouldn’t be back from the Singing Caverns until this afternoon.”

“Oh, that,” said Gobo carelessly. “I came back early. I was trying to get some inspiration for a new tune, but nothing much was coming. Musician’s block, eh? Anyway, I’d like to sit on my bed and rest, if that’s okay.”

“Oh, sure, Gobo,” said Wembley. He sat up—getting one foot caught in the hem of Mokey’s sweater as he started to swing his legs over the side of the bed. He stretched out an arm to steady himself, then pitched onto the floor as Red’s pigtail holders flopped into his eyes again.

“Wembley!” cried Gobo, helping him up. “Are you okay?”

“I think so,” said Wembley uncertainly. “Only, I got my foot caught in Mokey’s sweater again, and Red’s pigtail holders got in my eyes again... and my neck is feeling really sweaty. But Boober said that... oh, Gobo!” Wembley started to cry again.

Gobo blinked, shook his head, and blinked again. “Wembley, what in the Rock are you wearing? Did you say that was Mokey’s sweater?”

“Her extra one,” said Wembley miserably. “And Red loaned me her extra hat. And Boober loaned me his other scarf.”

“They all loaned...?” Gobo began.

“Oh, Gobo, it’s been such an awful day!” Wembley cried. “I wish you’d been here this morning. Then you could have told me how not to be cold.”

“I think you’d better start at the beginning,” Gobo said, not unkindly. “Tell me what happened.”

So Wembley poured out his sorry tale. How he had wanted to go skating, how he had heard the talk of it being cold enough to freeze one’s winnebago, how he had talked to Mokey and Red and Boober, and how each of them had loaned him something to wear so he wouldn’t be cold. “They must all be right, Gobo,” he finished. “I saw them wearing clothes like that today, and they all looked fine. So what’s wrong with me?” Without thinking, he wiped his tears on Boober’s scarf. “Oh, no,” he added. “On top of all that, I’m getting germs on this thing. Boober’s not gonna be happy about that.”

“But, Wembley,” said Gobo, “you’ve always worn your own clothes in winter, and they’ve always kept you warm enough. Why did you need something extra this year?”

“I just did,” said Wembley miserably. “Mokey and Red and Boober said I needed these things. They can’t all be wrong, can they, Gobo?”

“Wembley,” said Gobo gently, “those clothes are right for them. They aren’t right for you. You know that sweater’s too big for you, and that you don’t have pigtails, and that your turtleneck’s collar is plenty warm enough on its own without a scarf on top. Don’t you think it might have been those clothes, not you?”

“I don’t know,” said Wembley. “All I know is, it’s cold enough to freeze your winnebago. I don’t want to be cold.”

“Well, I know something that’ll keep you warm in the coldest weather,” said Gobo. “Do you want to try it?”

“Well... well, sure, Gobo,” said Wembley. “What is it?”

“Take off your scarf, Wembley,” said Gobo.

“But, Gobo...!” Wembley began.

“Just trust me,” said Gobo. “Take off your scarf.”

Nervously, Wembley untied the scarf and placed it on a nearby ledge. “Now what?”

“Take off your hat,” said Gobo.

Wembley took off his earmuffs, pulled the hat off, and put his earmuffs back on.

“Now take off that long sweater,” said Gobo.

Wembley removed the sweater and put it on the ledge, along with the hat. “But, Gobo, I...”

“Now, run!” And Gobo dashed out the door.

“But, Gobo...!” Wembley called after him.

“Catch me if you can!” yelled Gobo. He darted past Mokey, Red, and Boober, who were just coming down the tunnel.

“Hey, wait up!” called Wembley, rushing past his other three friends. “Gobo, what’s going on?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” said Red, shaking her head.

But Wembley wasn’t listening. Panting for breath, trying to keep Gobo in sight, he dashed after him. The orange Fraggle didn’t stop until he reached the Great Hall.

“Hey, Lou?” Gobo was calling. “Lend me your skates, eh?”

Lou was standing by the edge of the pond, singing soothing songs to Beastie. “No problem, Gobo.” She handed her skates to Gobo, who tied them on and stepped onto the ice.

“Gobo, what’s going on?” Wembley repeated.

“Get your skates on, Wembley!” shouted Gobo. “You said you left them by the edge of the pond.”

“But what...?” Wembley began.

“Just trust me,” said Gobo.

Wembley looked down. His skates were right where he’d left them. With a sigh, he tied them back on. “Come and follow me!” shouted Gobo.

Wembley stepped onto the ice... not tripping this time, he noticed. He took a glide forward. Nothing was getting into his eyes. And his neck felt strangely free of sweat.

“Can’t catch me!” yelled Gobo, racing past.

"Oh, yes, I can!” Wembley heard himself yell back. And before he knew what he was doing, he found himself starting after Gobo. Gobo did a backward glide. Wembley did the same. Gobo did a triple loop-the-loop. Wembley skated a backward circle around him. At last they collapsed onto the edge of the pond, laughing like mad.

“Gobo, what is going on?” asked a voice.

The two Fraggles looked up to see Red standing nearby. With her were Mokey and Boober.

“Yes, what’s happening?” said Boober.

“Wembley?” asked Mokey. “Why aren’t you wearing those clothes we lent you?”

Wembley tried to answer, but all that came out of his mouth was another guffaw.

“Aren’t you cold, Wembley?” asked Boober. “Don’t tell you’ve gotten hypothermia already. Please tell me it’s not pneumonia.”

Slowly Wembley got to his feet, still shaking with laughter.

“Come on, Wembley,” said Red impatiently. “What’s the story?”

“A story!” gasped Wembley, getting his breath back at last. “Oh, boy! Just wait until you hear it.”

The other four Fraggles made themselves comfortable on rocks while Wembley did the same. “I can barely decide where to begin,” he giggled.

“Begin at the beginning!” said Red.

“Well, it all started this morning, when I woke up and asked Gobo what he thought we should do today...” And Wembley poured out the rest of the story, enjoying his friends wide-eyed looks, followed by fits of giggles, followed by guffaws that echoed through the entire Great Hall.

“Gobo was gone,” said Red, shaking her head. “So that’s why you asked all of us for help. Wembley, you’re as much of a wembler as ever.”

“But one who cares about his health,” added Boober. “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. Right, Wembley?”

Wembley didn’t answer. Instead, he tied his skates back on and did another figure-eight across the ice while the others clapped.

“And I’m not cold!” he added. “What do you think of that?”

 

[Robinlover]

I like it!

 

[Mary Louise]

I like it!

Thanks!