“A lot,” Flip said.
To which Tumble added, “Yeah, we will.”
“Tumbled toad toes,” Ereth grumbled. He looked out through the forest and toward the south—and his home.
“Ereth . . .” Flip said. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“There was something we forgot to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
Flip looked from Nimble, to Tumble, then back to Ereth. “We wanted to say . . . thank you.”
The pain in Ereth’s chest was making it hard for him to breathe. “Oh, bobcat beads,” he muttered.
“And another thing,” Tumble said.
“Stop!” Ereth snapped. “I don’t want to hear!”
“We . . . like you. A lot.”
Ereth looked away.
“And anyway,” Nimble added, “I bet with those scratches that fisher gave you, you’ll need us to look after you. Am I right?”
“Right,” Flip said, “this time we’ll take care of you.”
Ereth stared at the three kits, who were sitting in a row. Tongues lolling, eyes full of bright curiosity, large-eared and big-pawed, they seemed so terribly young.
“Busted bug bottoms,” Ereth muttered. “You’ll never be able to take care of me.”
“But if you don’t let us try,” Nimble said, “you won’t ever know, will you?”
“Yeah,” Tumble said.
“Centipede armpits!” Ereth cried. “All I want is to go back to my own smelly log.”
The kits looked at one another. It was Flip who said, “Well, then we’ll go with you.”
“No!”
“But . . . why not?” Flip said.
“If you came to my place, what would you eat?”
“What we always do,” Tumble said. “Meat.”
“Look here, nibble nose, my best friends are mice.”
“Oh,” Nimble said.
“If you so much as touch one whisker of one mouse—one!—I’ll turn you inside out so fast you won’t know what direction you’re going. If you come with me for a visit you’re going to eat nothing but . . . but vegetables.”
The foxes exchanged looks.
Tumble grinned. “That’s okay with us,” he said. “But only when we visit you.”
CHAPTER 27
Ereth’s Birthday
ERETH LED THE WAY, the three foxes trotting by his side. With the porcupine limping, they moved slowly. Now and again the foxes darted off, but they never went far and they always came back.
At first they chatted quite a bit, asking Ereth questions about where he lived, how he lived, whom he lived with, along with countless queries about Poppy. Ereth answered very little. To most questions, he said, “You’ll see.” Or, “None of your business, nit nose.”
So the foxes chatted among themselves. It was continual, it was loud, and was not without some bickering. Ereth paid little mind, but waddled slowly, steadily on.
It had taken one day for Ereth to come from his home to Long Lake. The return trip took two days. There were moments he felt he should just turn around and go with the foxes to their den. But he kept reminding himself that he wanted to be in his own dark and smelly home. He also needed to see Poppy.
Of course, as he limped along, he occasionally thought about the salt he’d left behind in the cabin. Perhaps someday he would go back. But as he mused on when that day might be he suddenly stopped.
“What’s the matter?” Flip asked him.
“I’m very old,” Ereth whispered. Though he found himself glancing over his shoulder from time to time, he said no more.
They arrived home the following day just about noon. It was Columbine, playing about at the foot of the snag, who first saw them coming.
“Uncle Ereth!” she cried with delight. “You’re back!”
“Of course I’m back, you dull dab of bobcat widdle. Where else would I be?”
“But . . . you’ve been gone so . . .” Then Columbine saw the three foxes. Frightened, she turned tail and raced into the snag.
In moments Poppy ran out. She was joined by Rye and the rest of the litter. “Ereth,” Poppy cried, “where have you been?”
Ereth wanted to burst out with all that had happened. Instead he said, “Oh, busy.”
“But you were gone for a month. We were worried.”
“You were?”
“Of course we were.” Poppy looked over to the three foxes. “Are these friends of yours?”
“Absolutely. This is Tumble, Nimble, and Flip. Guys, this is Poppy. And her husband, Rye. These mice are named Columbine, Mariposa, Snowberry, Walnut, Verbena, Scruboak, Pipsissewa, Crabgrass, Locust, Sassafras, and Ragweed the Second.”
“How-do-you-do-Tumble-Nimble-and-Flip,” the young mice chorused.
Rye considered the foxes nervously. “Are they . . . safe?” he asked Ereth.
“Strict vegetarians.”
“Oh, okay.”
The foxes, remembering all the tales Ereth had told, gazed at the famous Poppy with awe. She was so small, but she had done so much!
It was Poppy who said, “Ereth, did you realize that on the day you went off, it was your birthday?”
“Is that so?” Ereth replied, trying not to frown. “I guess I forgot.”
Sassafras ran over to Poppy and whispered into her ear, “Ma! Ereth’s . . . you know.”
“Oh, my, yes,” Poppy said. “You really should.”
With that all eleven of the young mice raced back into the hole at the base of the snag.
“It’s just a little something Rye and I—and the children—got for your birthday,” Poppy explained. “We went to get it for you that morning.”
Ereth could feel himself blushing. “Well, it didn’t seem to me that . . .”
“The children said they tried to get you to stay but you rushed off.”
The young mice reappeared, rolling forward a large lump of salt. The lump being six times the size of any one of the youngsters, all of whom were trying to be helpful, there was much slipping and falling, squeaking and laughing.
“Happy birthday, Uncle Ereth!” they cried in unison when they finally reached the porcupine.
It was Rye who explained: “You see, Ereth, Poppy and I got it from the salt block at New Farm. Unfortunately, it took us longer to drag it back than we thought it would. By the time we got home you had gone.”
“And we had no idea where,” Poppy added.
“Then the storm came,” Rye said.
“We began to think something might have happened to you,” Poppy went on. “Really, Ereth, we were very worried. But we didn’t know where to look. When you go off that way you really must leave some word. I . . . I began to think something awful happened to you. I’ve been very upset.”
Eyes glued to
