The other animals were more than obliging. When these fellow travelers knew where a brook was, they explained how to reach it. And Poppy and Ereth did find them: one or two large brooks, some three of smaller size. But no golden mice were to be found.
“Ereth,” Poppy finally said, “we don’t seem to be getting any closer to where Ragweed said his family lived. Do you think he might have been confused about which way he came?”
“Probably,” Ereth grumbled.
“I admit,” Poppy confessed, “I’m beginning to wonder how much longer we should go on.”
Ereth came to a quick stop. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
The anxiety in his voice caused Poppy to consider him thoughtfully. “You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” she said. “Is something bothering you?”
“Oh, sparrow swit,” Ereth barked. “Can’t a fellow keep his thoughts to himself?”
“Of course he can.”
“Look here, Poppy,” the porcupine said, “I’m not used to being with others. How many times do I have to say it, I like being alone.”
“That’s fine,” the mouse returned. “I was just wondering.”
“Well, stop wondering, puzz ball.”
“But the forest does seem to be thinning,” Poppy pointed out. “Maybe we are closer to those woodlands.”
Ereth looked about. “I prefer the dark,” he said.
Poppy sighed. “I’m going on a bit more.”
“Do what you want,” Ereth growled.
By midday, with the trees thinning more and more and the sun beating down hard, it became too hot to travel. Ereth announced he needed a nap. Without even waiting for Poppy to reply, he rattled off the trail, found a shady spot in a tree, curled up in a ball, and went to sleep.
Poppy rolled over on her stomach, plucked a blade of grass, and chewed it meditatively.
Before her spread a small meadow. Surrounded on three sides by trees, it had a closed-in, secure feeling. The grasses were low, sprinkled about with flowers. She noticed yellow viola, forget-me-nots, and bluebells. There was a scarlet falsemallow and some lovely, lush poppies.
A black and orange butterfly came into view, fluttering its wings like a slow-motion dancer. Soon after a fat bumblebee, legs bulky with golden pollen, worked its way from flower to flower. A fast dancer, Poppy thought.
As Poppy looked on, something stirred within her. To her surprise, she felt lonely and empty yet full and content all at once. How, she wondered, could she feel such contradictions?
Then, as she watched a dragonfly dart by, she recalled that it had been a long time since she had danced. When she was young—a few months ago—she had thought a great deal about dancing. She even had wanted to be a dancer.
Sighing, she recollected that she never had danced with Ragweed. They had meant to. Now she felt the desire to dance again.
With a nervous glance up at Ereth to make sure he was still sleeping, she got to her feet.
Poppy checked a second time to make sure her friend was asleep. She was in no mood to deal with the porcupine’s teasing. When he didn’t stir, she lifted her front paws as if to pluck the sun from the sky. Her tail began to wave to a steady beat. A miniature melody, halfway between a whistle and hum, rose to her throat. It was no particular tune, just something she made up then and there.
She took one step, and another, gliding forward, pretending, wanting to be as graceful as possible. With every step her heart seemed to lighten.
Within moments Poppy was leaping about, skimming the surface of the field, bending and bowing, twirling and whirling, hardly thinking, aware mostly of the sun’s warmth that caressed her fur, and the cool grasses that tickled her toes. Oh, how she loved to dance! Oh, how she loved life!
Almost overwhelmed with emotion, Poppy closed her eyes, spun, dipped, and danced some more. Then she opened her eyes. Standing before her was a mouse.
Poppy gasped. For one indescribable moment she thought it was Ragweed. The mouse before her had the same orange-colored fur. His whiskers were fair. His tail was not very long. His ears were small and round. She almost cried, “Ragweed!” but could not find tongue to do it.
Then she noticed a small notch on this mouse’s right ear. This was not Ragweed. Even so she stood there, transfixed, staring, heart pounding as fast as hummingbird wings.
For his part, the strange mouse stood absolutely still, gazing at Poppy as if in a rhapsody.
When Poppy had opened her eyes she had been in the midst of a twirl, arms and paws extended before her, legs behind. As she gawked at the mouse before her she dared not move.
Now the strange mouse extended his paws. Without a word, he gently took Poppy’s paws in his. At his touch Poppy felt a tingle ripple through her body. It was as if a feather had stroked her from her tail to her nose.
For a moment—a moment that felt like eternity—the two mice looked into each other’s eyes.
He whispered, “May I dance with you?”
In answer, Poppy made the first move. It was not a movement away, or a retreat, but a small step to one side.
His paws in hers, the two mice moved in perfect rhythm. Round and round and paw-in-paw they danced upon the meadow. Eyes locked, whiskers sometimes brushing, they turned this way, that way, bobbing, bowing, soaring, in as graceful a duet as two mice ever had danced, could dance, would dance.
How much Poppy wanted to ask, “Who are you? What are you? Where do you come from?” She could not. She had no voice or words capable of expressing what she felt. She only knew nothing bad was happening. Indeed, it was just the opposite. Something very fine was occurring, something grand, something wonderful!
Suddenly, Poppy slipped. Her paws jerked away
