“It’s not very pleasant,” Mr. Ocax returned with a snarl.
“No, well, you’re absolutely right there, Mr. Ocax,” Lungwort replied, straining to sound jaunty. “But April showers, as the song goes, bring May flowers. And I—”
Mr. Ocax clacked his beak. “Lungwort, it’s summer. Did you come here to sing me idiot songs, or do you have something important to say?”
“Well, in fact, I did bring—”
“Hurry up. I’ve not eaten my dinner yet. And I’m hungry.”
“Well, yes, of course,” Lungwort said. “I understand perfectly.”
Lungwort hastily put on his hat, not noticing until too late that it had filled with rain. Water cascaded over his head. With a nervous shake, he fumbled to unroll his speech paper. Before he could get it out, Mr. Ocax’s eyes grew bigger.
“Who’s that?” he demanded as he moved his head about to bring Poppy into better focus.
“Forgive me,” Lungwort said. “I’ve been rude. This is one of my dutiful daughters. Poppy, step forward. Look up. There’s the good mouse. Mr. Ocax, may I introduce Poppy to you?”
Prodded by her father, she stepped forward gingerly. All she could see was Mr. Ocax’s eyes. She felt not just looked at but attacked.
“Poppy, eh?” he growled. “I think we’ve already met.”
“One of my sweetest,” Lungwort offered.
Mr. Ocax ignored him. Instead he said, “What happened to your nose, girl?”
“I . . . I . . . scraped it.”
“A close call, I’d say.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Little girl mice should be more careful.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you understand me?”
Poppy longed to run away.
Lungwort nudged her. “Poppy, dear, Mr. Ocax asked if you were understanding him.”
“Yes, sir, I do,” Poppy squeaked with a bob of her head.
“All right, then,” Mr. Ocax said. “Now be a good little girl and come stand under my tree while I talk to your father.”
Hating herself for acting so fearful, queasy at the thought of going closer to the mound of pellets, Poppy appealed to her father with a look. Lungwort, however, only nodded.
“Move it!” Mr. Ocax snapped.
Averting her eyes from the pellets, Poppy crept toward the tree, the flag dragging behind her. But when she reached the spot, she was unable to resist the fascination of the horrible mound. Once she looked, she caught sight of something that glittered.
“All right, Lungwort,” Mr. Ocax said, “let’s hear what you have to say.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you.” Lungwort held out his piece of paper. Now the thimbleful of water, as well as the rain, had drenched it. All the same, he tried to read:
“Whereas Mr. Ocax, Great Horned Owl, Ruler of the Dimwood Forest Region, who, out of his kindness and wisdom, protects all members of the Deer Mice family:
“Whereas the said family of Deer Mice living in Gray House, in return for Mr. Ocax’s protection, have agreed to ask his permission whenever they wish to move about:
“Whereas the Deer Mice family, having grown so great in numbers, need a second place of habitation so as to maintain and enhance their lives with sufficient food:
“And . . .” Lungwort paused to shake the paper.
“And what?” Mr. Ocax demanded.
“The paper is somewhat wet,” Lungwort apologized.
“So is the style,” Mr. Ocax observed. “Go on.”
Lungwort cleared his throat and continued to read. “Whereas Mr. Ocax, Protector of Deer Mice, is famous for his kindness, generosity, and compassion:
“Theref—”
“Stop!”
“Yes?”
“Repeat that!”
“What?”
“That line about me.”
“About kindness, generosity, and compassion?”
“Right. I like it. That’s well written.”
“Yes, thank you. I wrote it. Whereas Mr. Ocax, Protector of Deer Mice, is famous for his kindness, generosity, and compassion:
“Therefore, said Deer Mice of said Gray House humbly petition said Mr. Ocax to . . . to . . .”
“Will you get to the point!” Mr. Ocax screeched in exasperation.
“I’m sorry,” Lungwort said. “The rain has washed away the rest of my writing.”
“Then just dump it and say what you want,” the owl boomed.
“We . . . we humbly request your permission,” Lungwort finally said, “to move.”
“Move?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I said, we are too many. We need more food.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“To New House.”
First Mr. Ocax blinked. Next he swiveled his head around, frowning first at Lungwort, then down at Poppy, then again at Lungwort. Finally he said, “You mean that new place up along the Tar Road, beyond New Field?”
Poppy thought she heard something new in Mr. Ocax’s voice. She tried to grasp it.
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Ocax hesitated. “Well . . . er . . . have you been there?”
Now Poppy was sure. It was uncertainty that she was hearing.
“Have you been there?” Mr. Ocax demanded shrilly.
“Well, the truth is,” Lungwort said, “my friend Mr.—”
“Yes or no?” the owl screamed.
“Well, no. Not exactly. But my friend told me it would make an excellent source of food for half of my family, and—”
“Lungwort!” Mr. Ocax interrupted. “I forbid you to move to New House.”
“What?” Lungwort gasped, flapping the rain away from his face with a paw. The word had all but stuck in his throat.
“Permission denied, Lungwort. You cannot move to New House.”
“But, but—why, sir?”
“Because I said so.”
“But . . . but the Gray House area does not provide enough food. It’s urgent that some of us move so we can survive and—”
“No New House. Now I’ve got a dinner to catch, so you’d better skedaddle. Unless, of course, you want to please me by leaving your daughter. Then”—the owl chuckled—“I might reconsider.”
“But . . .”
Mr. Ocax leaned forward. “Whooo-whooo,” he wailed in his loudest but lowest voice.
The sound exploded over them. Poppy, clapping paws to ears, ran out from under the tree toward her father, who was still standing there, stammering, “But . . . but . . .”
“Come on, Papa,” Poppy urged, trying to turn her father around. “We’d better go.” With difficulty she turned him.
“Lungwort!” Mr. Ocax called suddenly.
Lungwort whirled so fast the thimble fell off his head. Bowing, smiling, he began, “You were just teasing, weren’t—”
“Listen to me, Lungwort!” Mr. Ocax cried. “I’ve two more things to say to you. First! Pass the word among your friends that I’ve spotted a new porcupine around Dimwood.”
“Porcupine?” Lungwort echoed dumbly.
“A particularly vicious one. But don’t worry. I’ll protect you. Second . . . it’s about your daughter there. If you want a reason for my refusal, ask her how she and I met before.”
“Reason?”
“She didn’t ask permission to go
