“Check it out,” Blinker said with a shy grin.
“Anyone see Silversides or Graybar yet?”
Clutch grinned. “Far as anyone can tell, they, like, left town. Someone said they took a train. All I know is they’re gone. Totally sunk.”
“Killer sweet,” Ragweed agreed as the sound of the train whistle grew quite loud. “Only now it’s my turn.”
“Dude,” Clutch said, becoming serious, “I just want to say you are one awesome mouse. I mean, like, you’ve done it all. You may be a country mouse, but you’re way world class out of here. In fact, everyone connected with the club agreed we should change the name. From now on it’s Club Ragweed.”
“Awesome, dude,” returned Ragweed, grinning broadly.
“But just to show you how Blinker and I feel,” Clutch said, “we’ve got a present for you.” She reached up and removed her purple plastic earring. She held it out so that the bead dangled from her paws. “We’d sort of like to give this to you, dude. I mean, if you want it, that is.”
Ragweed took the earring gently. He was deeply moved.
“When you wear it, Ragweed, think of us and dance,” Blinker suggested.
“Like, long as you wear it,” Clutch added, “you’ll never back down to any bully.”
“I hear you,” Ragweed said.
“Want me to put it on, dude?” Clutch asked.
“Be way cool.”
Clutch fixed the earring to Ragweed’s left ear. “Glad you came, dude.” She gave the same ear a nuzzle as she added, “Dude, you totally buttered the muffin.”
Blinker nuzzled his other ear.
The next moment all three mice embraced.
The train came slowly into view, headlight flashing, bells ringing, whistle sounding. Its arrival ended with a loud bang.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Blinker asked.
“Hey,” Ragweed said, “I’ve seen the city. Time to explore the forest.”
With that he scampered up the coupling hose, moved along a boxcar gutter, and slipped inside.
Once settled, he looked out. Side by side, Blinker and Clutch were looking up at him.
The train lurched forward. Fighting tears, Ragweed waved goodbye with one paw, touching his new earring with the other.
“Hey, dude,” Clutch cried, “don’t forget!”
“Forget what?” Ragweed shouted back.
“A mouse has to do what a mouse has to do!” Clutch called. “Know what I’m saying?”
“Yo, baby,” Ragweed shouted back, “like, I do!”
With a great shriek, the train gathered speed. Clutch and Blinker watched Ragweed go. Then, paw in paw, they headed for home.
Ragweed turned away at last and stared glumly at the passing world through the open door of the boxcar. Now and again he touched his new earring. But when the train whistle blew its mournful tune he found it impossible not to break into song:
“A mouse will a-roving go,
Along wooded paths and pebbled ways
To places high and places low,
Where birds do sing ’neath sunny rays,
For the world is full of mice, oh!
For the world is full of mice, oh!”
Then Ragweed cupped his paws around his mouth and with all his strength shouted, “Dimwood Forest, here I come!”
Excerpt from Poppy
CHAPTER 1
Mr. Ocax
A THIN CRESCENT MOON, high in the sky, shed faint white light over Dimwood Forest. Stars glowed. Breezes full of ripe summer fragrance floated over nearby meadow and hill. Dimwood itself, veiled in darkness, lay utterly still.
At the very edge of this forest stood an old charred oak on which sat a great horned owl. The owl’s name was Mr. Ocax, and he looked like death himself.
Mr. Ocax’s eyes—flat upon his face—were round and yellow with large ebony pupils that enabled him to see as few other creatures could. Moonlight—even faint moonlight—was as good as daylight for him.
With his piercing gaze, Mr. Ocax surveyed the lands he called his own, watching for the comings and goings of the creatures he considered his subjects—and his dinners. He looked at Glitter Creek, home to the fish he found so appetizing; the Tar Road, across which tasty rabbits were known to hop; Jayswood, where meaty chipmunks sometimes skittered before dawn. By swiveling his head he searched the Marsh for a savory frog, then New Field, where, usually, he could count on a delicious vole or two. He looked at Gray House, where Farmer Lamout used to live, then upon the Old Orchard. He even looked, nervously, toward New House. But nowhere did he see a thing to eat. Profoundly annoyed, Mr. Ocax was beginning to think he would have no dinner that night.
But finally, there—near the top of Bannock Hill, where the ponderosa pines had all been cut, where only a few struggling saplings and bushes grew—he saw movement. Just the glimmer of food was enough to cause his owl’s heart to pound, his curved black beak to clack, his feathered horns to stand up tall.
Mr. Ocax shifted his head from right to left, forward and back. When he did so, he beheld . . . two mice! Of all the creatures the owl hunted, he enjoyed mice the most. They were the best eating, to be sure, but better still, they were the most fearful, and Mr. Ocax found deep satisfaction in having others afraid of him. And here, after a wait of nearly the whole night, were two savory subjects to terrify before he ate them.
One of the two, a deer mouse, crouched cautiously beneath a length of rotten bark. The other, a golden mouse, stood in the open on his hind legs, his short tail sticking straight out behind for balance. From his left ear an earring dangled. In his paws he held a hazelnut.
“It’s not as if I haven’t warned these mice,” Mr. Ocax murmured to himself. “If they will move about without my permission, they have only themselves to blame for the consequences.” As he leaned forward to listen, his sharp-as-needles talons, four to each large claw and jet-black at their tips, cut deeply into the branch he was perched on. “Catching these two mice,” he mused, “is going to be fun.”
On Bannock Hill, the golden mouse turned to his timid companion and said, “Poppy, girl, this hazelnut is bad-tothe-bone.
