Dali’s Helmet

Dali had a new bike, as blue as the sky. Today, for the very first time, he was going to ride it to the park with Dad. “Come on, Dad, come on!” he called happily.

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Dad handed him a white helmet. “Helmet first, then the bike,” he said. Dali pulled a face. “But the helmet squashes my beret! And it isn’t even pretty.”

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Dad didn’t get cross. He fetched two eggs from the kitchen. He tucked one into a little box filled with soft cotton wool, like a tiny helmet. The other one he left just as it was. “Come here, I want to show you something,” he said.

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Dad let go of both eggs above the garden path. The egg without a helmet went crack! The egg in the box stayed whole, without a single crack. Dali’s eyes went wide. “Wow!”

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“Your head is precious, like this egg. Even more precious,” said Dad. “On a bike you can fall off, even when you’re careful. A helmet protects your head, just like the soft box protected the egg. That’s why I say: helmet first.”

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Dali thought for a moment. Then his eyes lit up. “Dad, can I paint my helmet?” With his brush, he painted a sun, two flowers and a green swirl, just like his shell. Now it was the prettiest helmet in the whole Meadow!

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Dali put the helmet on all by himself, and Dad did up the strap under his chin: click! Then off they rode to the park. A gentle breeze blew in their faces, and Dali laughed all the way.

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At the park, Nini and Mingo saw the helmet and cried, “It’s beautiful!” Dali said proudly, “Dad told me: helmet first, then the bike. He says it because he loves me. And now I know why he’s right.”

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