When I was young and spent a great deal of time with children, I would often hear the same request:

"Tell us a story!"

Before long I discovered that they already knew all the well-loved fairy tales. So I had no choice but to invent new ones. Fortunately, there were plenty of opportunities, for my stories were never written at a desk. They grew naturally out of all sorts of everyday moments.

People often asked me where I found all these ideas, and I would tell them the story of the Whispering Spring.

Deep in the forest, high upon a rocky hill, a lively little spring bubbled up from the earth. At first it was only a tiny streamlet, dancing over the stones beneath the tall old trees. Before long, however, other little springs joined it from left and right, and together they became a fine, cheerful brook that hurried noisily down the hillside.

Yet right at the very source there was a little mossy clearing. The trees stood back just enough to let the sunshine pour in, making it a perfect place to sit and listen to the bubbling spring whenever the birds happened to fall silent for a while.

There the wind would whisper through the branches, telling the spring stories from distant lands. The little stream, unable to keep such wonderful tales to itself, chattered them all away as it flowed along.

If you listened carefully enough, you could hear the most astonishing stories.

And that was where I found my fairy tales:

at the little babbling spring in the forested hills.