The Smoke That Snickered — Every morning before breakfast, Bramble climbed the highest tooth of Cloudbite Ridge and roared into the valley to count his echoes. Read the full story →
Every morning before breakfast, Bramble climbed the highest tooth of Cloudbite Ridge and roared into the valley to count his echoes. One, two, three, they bounced off the peaks, rolled over the pine forest, and came back smelling of snow and river mist. Until one morning, after his biggest roar, the smoke above his snout went, “Pffft-hee!”
Bramble snapped his jaws shut. Because of that, the smoke curled into a tidy spiral instead of floating away. Because of THAT, something tiny rattled inside it like a pebble in a teacup. Bramble puffed again, softer this time, and the spiral sneezed out a golden whistle no longer than his claw. “Who hid a giggle in my breakfast breath?” he grumbled.
The whistle tweeted by itself. Far below, mountain goats popped their heads from the rocks, and a line of clouds marched backward across the sky. Bramble laughed so hard his tail looped around the peak. At last he tucked the whistle behind one horn, where nobody had thought to look, and saved it for tomorrow’s echoes. If you spot the curling smoke, you may catch the next pffft-hee before it escapes.
