Tamsin and the Laughing Log — By the pine spur, Tamsin tapped her pencil against the whistle-code board: two toots for the bend, one soft puff for the mill pond, three cheery peeps for the lunch stop. Read the full story →
By the pine spur, Tamsin tapped her pencil against the whistle-code board: two toots for the bend, one soft puff for the mill pond, three cheery peeps for the lunch stop. The logging train smelled of sap and warm iron, and the chained timber cars clacked behind her like wooden teeth. She loved this part of the route, where the rails curved between huge trunks and the trees seemed to lean in to hear their own song.
As the engine rolled under the tallest fir, a new sound joined in: “Hoo-hoo-BRRRP!” Tamsin did not write it down. The fireman lifted one eyebrow. The engineer lifted both. Again came the noise, from the middle log on the first car, followed by a tiny sneeze and a shower of sawdust. “That wasn’t in my code,” Tamsin whispered.
At the pond stop, they found the surprise where nobody had thought to look: inside a hollow log sat a round little forest grouse, blinking like a judge and sitting on three pinecones it had mistaken for eggs. Tamsin added a new mark to the board—one proud squiggle for unexpected passengers. From then on, the train gave two toots, one puff, and, whenever the grouse felt fancy, a perfect “Hoo-hoo-BRRRP!” See if you can spot the log car where Tamsin’s new code first found its voice.
