The Dragon Who Hatched in a Chimney

In a small village, between the hills, there was a little bakery with a blue door. It smelled of fresh bread every morning. The baker was called Alma. She was old and had white curls and flour on her nose. Every night the bakery slept quietly. Only the oven hummed low, like a sleepy bear. And up on the roof stood a tall chimney, dreaming of smoke.

One morning, before the sun rose, Alma fetched her long chimney broom. She swept and swept. The soot tumbled down into a soft pile on the floor. In the middle of the pile lay something round. It was not a stone. It was not a lump of coal. It was an egg. A small, copper-colored egg, warm as a bun. Alma crouched down and tilted her head. 'Well, would you look at that,' she said quietly.

Alma carefully lifted the egg up into her apron. It crackled. Tap, tap, tap. A little crack appeared. Then another. Then another. A fluffy snout peeked out. Then two big yellow eyes. Then a whole little dragon, no bigger than a kitten, with shining copper scales and a tail as thin as a matchstick. He looked at Alma. He looked at the flour. He sneezed. Atchoo!

Alma was not afraid. She had seen many strange things in her long life. She gently wiped the soot from the little dragon with a soft cloth. His scales glittered like new copper coins. 'Why, you are warm as an ember,' she said, smiling with her whole face. 'Then you shall be called Ember.' The little dragon crawled up into her wrinkled hand. He peeped back, as low and soft as a kettle.

Ember looked around with big eyes. The bakery was big and warm and full of smells. He saw tall flour sacks. He saw long bread tins in a row. He saw a big black oven with a red glowing mouth. He sneezed again. But this time no soot came out of his nose. A little warm puff came out. Like a summer breeze. The flour on the table stirred softly. It rose up into the air like a tiny snowfall.