At the far side of the pond a particularly large, fat beaver was gnawing upon the trunk of an aspen tree. There was a sharp crack as the tree snapped and tumbled to earth, landing with a crash.
At the sound all the beavers in the pond looked around. When they saw it was a tree that had fallen, they began to slap the pond’s surface with their tails.
Poppy, standing in the rain, looking on, heard someone say, “Awful. Just awful.”
She turned. Sitting beneath a large toadstool, protected from the rain, was a golden mouse.
Poppy’s heart fluttered. For an instant she thought it was the one with whom she had danced. Then she saw that this mouse, though tall and thin, was a female.
“Hello,” Poppy said.
The mouse looked beyond Poppy. “Oh, hi,” she said. She sounded unhappy.
“Do you live around here?” Poppy asked.
“Yes.”
“Are there . . . are there a lot of you around?” Poppy inquired. “I mean . . . golden mice.”
The mouse looked down at herself as if she had never considered the question before. “I suppose.”
“My name is Poppy,” Poppy said. “I’m a deer mouse.”
“My name is Thistle,” said the other. “How come you’re standing in the rain?”
“Oh, right. I am. May I join you?”
“Sure.”
Poppy darted under the cover of the toadstool. Thistle, making room, asked, “Where are you from?”
“Back east. Over by Dimwood Forest.”
“Never heard of it,” Thistle said with polite indifference. She had turned back to stare down at the pond. Water dripped from around the edges of the toadstool like a tattered curtain.
“I hate beavers,” Thistle said.
“Why?”
“When they made that pond they ruined everything for everybody. The Brook used to be so cool.”
Poppy’s heart gave a lurch. “Is that what you called it?” she asked, her voice faltering. “The Brook?”
Thistle nodded. “You wouldn’t think it used to be small and calm. Look at it now!” she said sadly. Then she added, “Our home was right on the banks of the Brook. No more. Flooded out. We had to move away. Because of them.”
Poppy was trying to restrain her growing excitement.
“Thistle . . .” Poppy said nervously.
“What?”
“Does the name . . . Ragweed . . . mean anything to you?”
Thistle had been gazing mournfully down at the pond. At the name she whirled about. “Ragweed!” she cried. “That’s my brother! Do you know him? Have you seen him? Have you any idea where he is? Is he coming back? I can’t tell you how much we need him!”
Instead of answering Thistle’s barrage of questions, Poppy asked one of her own. “Are your parents named Clover and Valerian?”
“How did you know? Ragweed must have told you. But that means you do know him. Oh, man, you gotta see my parents. Our nest isn’t far,” she went on. “Come on. Please tell me about Ragweed. What’s he doing? You don’t know how much we miss him! Do you know when he’s coming? We really need him to come back. I’ve got tons of brothers but Ragweed’s the best.”
Managing to push down her emotions, but speaking in a strained voice, Poppy said, “I think I better talk to your parents.”
Thistle darted into the rain. “I’ll take you. What did you say your name was?”
“Poppy.”
“Poppy, you won’t believe how glad my parents will be to see you!”
With Thistle looking over her shoulder to make sure Poppy was following, the two mice made their way through the rain along a path that led uphill from the pond. The farther they went, the more nervous Poppy became.
“It’s just over here,” Thistle kept calling.
They had come to a large boulder embedded in an outcropping of earth. A variety of shrubs and flowers rimmed the rock. In the rain they seemed shrunken and cold.
Poppy herself was thoroughly soaked as well as trembling. The wetness came from the rain but the trembling came from her emotions. Though Thistle was just as wet, she was too excited to notice Poppy’s state.
“Just follow me,” the young mouse said, darting along the base of the rock, then plunging into the small hole which was screened by some flowering rosecrown.
At the entry hole, Poppy paused to give herself strength. “Why did I ever want to do this?” she wondered.
Thistle popped back up out of the hole. “Come on!” she called, then plunged down the tunnel again. A reluctant Poppy followed at a slower pace. She could hear Thistle yell, “Ma! Pa! Everyone. Guess what? Someone’s come with news about Ragweed!”
Full of dread, wishing the tunnel were a hundred miles long, Poppy crept the whole way. All the same, within moments she entered the nest.
In a glance Poppy saw the nest for what it was: a single, shabby room stuffed with golden mice. Golden mice tended to be bigger than deer mice, so Poppy’s first sensation was not only that there were a lot of them, but that they all seemed quite large.
But Poppy had not the slightest doubt she was in the presence of Ragweed’s family. The resemblance was uncanny. It was as if she were in a room full of familiar ghosts. She felt weak.
There were the two adults, Clover and Valerian, plus eleven children. The children ranged from fully grown young adults to squeaking infants, one of which was being burped on Clover’s shoulder.
When Poppy entered the nest the golden mice stared at her with twitching ears and wide eyes.
“This is Poppy,” Thistle announced excitedly.
“How do,” Valerian said, standing tall and thin, and fussing with his whiskers. There was a tremor in his voice.
Clover, very pale, said nothing. Her black eyes, open wide, just stared at Poppy. Her whiskers were shaking.
Thistle cried, “Poppy knows all about Ragweed, don’t you?”
Poppy was so choked with emotion, it was all she could do to nod a
