The Bear Who Counted Moons — Every night, Orson counted the crescents above the pine amphitheater without laughing, which was difficult because the moons looked like banana peels tossed by very tidy giants. Read the full story →
Every night, Orson counted the crescents above the pine amphitheater without laughing, which was difficult because the moons looked like banana peels tossed by very tidy giants. He had set himself the challenge after boasting to a marmot that he could reach the final moon before the cold stars blinked out. Until one night, he found an extra crescent tucked behind the tallest fir, thin as a shaving of butter and smelling faintly of frost.
Because of that, Orson counted it twice. Because of that, the mountains repeated him in a rumbling echo: “Twice! Twice!” Pebbles jumped. Owls snorted. The firs shook down glittering snow. The hidden crescent, pleased with the noise, rang like a spoon on a teacup and lit every carved ring in the old stone circle.
Finally Orson stopped trying to keep the game to himself. He tipped back his head and gave the biggest laugh the valley had ever held, a warm, round ha-ha that rolled from peak to peak. By dawn, every owl, marmot, fox, and sleepy beetle was counting crescents badly on purpose, and the moons still looked like banana peels tossed by very tidy giants.
