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moment, I wouldn’t have believed possible. She was so thrilled to be showing off her newest addition, she simply radiated good cheer. She held back one panel of cloth and motioned me inside.
    I immediately felt like Gulliver. I had stepped into a miniature world, and I was at least two feet too tall for it. The space must have measured fifty by fifty feet, and it was filled with animals and plants, interspersed with child-size molded chairs and low tables, presumably for craft projects. A case mounted on the wall contained the books in the Harriet the Hedgehog series, but they definitely took second place to the three-dimensional versions of the characters. The air smelled of clean sawdust and paint, with a whiff of old building. Two workers were painting statues, and the floor around them was strewn with drop cloths. Harriet apparently had a lot of friends: I thought I could identify a frog and what might be a duck or a goose—the latter’s identity was questionable since its feathers hadn’t been painted yet.
    “It’s just me!” Arabella called out to the workers. They looked up, and one waved a hand. Then they résuméd painting. “I’d introduce you, but we’ve got such a tight deadline I’d rather they just keep working. So much to do!”
    I noticed that Arabella was much closer to the right size for this exhibit than I was. “This looks wonderful,” I said, and meant it. “What’s your target age group?”
    Arabella looked like a proud mother hen. “Toddlers, up to five. So they can look Harriet here in the eye, you know.”
    I admired how whoever had crafted this statue had managed to reduce the hedgehog’s signature spines to something that wouldn’t impale a child climbing on her. The artist had succeeded, though the result was a wee bit lumpy. But safe. In a public institution that needed to be childproof, safety had to trump authenticity.
    “Harriet is a delightful character. You’d think a hedgehog’s personality would be prickly, with all those spines, but Harriet is a sweetheart,” Arabella said. “That’s a real teaching opportunity, you know: don’t judge someone by her exterior, but take some time to get to know her. And she has such wonderful friends! Mallory Mouse, Barry Bunny. And of course there has to be a bully—there always is—and that’s Willy the Weasel. But Hadley has brought him around slowly, over the course of the series. Willy just wants to make friends, but he doesn’t know how to do it.”
    I had to ask, “Are there any native hedgehogs in Pennsylvania?”
    “Good question, dear. No, there aren’t, not in any part of America—but they’re found in Africa, Eurasia, Asia, Borneo, and parts of Europe,” she recited promptly. “Oh, and in New Zealand, but those were introduced there. But there is a very active group in this country promoting hedgehogs as pets. The little things are fairly low maintenance, and they’re rather endearing little creatures, aren’t they? Do you remember Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle?”
    My mind was blank for a moment until a childhood memory surfaced. “Wasn’t that a Beatrix Potter character? Oh, right—she was a hedgehog, too.”
    “Exactly. And a very sweet one. That’s the spirit I think the author has captured, although of course Harriet’s stories have a more modern feeling.”
    “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you fund the exhibit?” I said.
    “I’m sure you’re aware that there are grants available for educational purposes, and we tapped into those where we could. After all, this display encourages young readers. Of course, all that happened before so many foundations faced financial difficulties—thank goodness. I doubt we could do it under current conditions. Hadley Eastman’s publisher contributed as well—this is excellent publicity for her series. And our board was very supportive. Most of them have young children or grandchildren.”
    “I wondered about that. Is it a requirement that they have children to