The Moon Behind the Whiskers — Under the warm sill, Brindle kept one paw in the moon stripe and one paw on the creaky floor. Read the full story →
Under the warm sill, Brindle kept one paw in the moon stripe and one paw on the creaky floor. He wanted the stripe for his chilly tail, but it slid away, thin as spilled milk, under the parlor door. So Brindle squeezed through after it, whiskers brushing dusty hinges, and padded into the dark hall where the wallpaper smelled like lemon soap and old rain.
The moon stripe ended beneath the umbrella stand. Brindle reached in and paid with a sneeze—achoo!—because the corner was full of fuzz. There, tucked behind a loose wooden curl, was not moonlight at all, but a tiny folded note. It read, “For Mrs. Vale: extra thread, before sunrise.” Her sewing basket had been empty for days.
Brindle could have gone back to his warm spot. Instead, he carried the note in his teeth to the door, where the milk boy always knocked first. “Mrrp,” Brindle told him, very softly. By breakfast, Mrs. Vale had thread, Brindle had a blue ribbon, and his tail found a better moon stripe than the one he chased. Next time you see his closed smile, keep the secret: he is remembering the warm sill.
