Fourth chapter in my attempt at children lit.
Chapter IV. Part II.
North of the Moly Copse was the Hummingtoad’s Meadow, where Hummingtoads lived. Syps didn’t like the Hummingtoads very much. First of all, they were gooey and the only gooey thing Syps liked was honey. Second, they took a malicious pleasure in hiding in the tall grass of the meadow and scaring him each time he walked through. Last, and most important, they hummed awfully loud and out of tune.
“Do we have to go through here?” Syps whined when they came out of the Nude Trees and in view of the Hummingtoad’s Meadow.
“We could go around,” Herturde suggested. “But it would take twice as long to get to the Blueberry Tree.”
“Humph. I guess through it is,” Syps pouted.
“I’ve never been in the Hummingtoad Meadow,” Willy said clapping his paws together. “I’ve always been too small to be in the tall grass without getting lost. But now I can fly!”
“I like their singing,” Spoom said from Syps’s shoulder. “We hear it at night when we go to sleep. It’s nice.”
Syps frowned and tried to look back at Spoom but his head wouldn’t turn that much.
“You Slothmoles have bad taste in food AND music,” he said.
“Taste is in the taste buds of the taster,” Hertrude purred at him.
Syps squinted at her while he thought about what she said.
“Like flying is in the wings of the flyer,” Willy said.
“Or like hearing is in the ears of the listener,” Spoom added.
A wide smile parted Syps’s lips.
“I get it!” he exclaimed. “Like softness is in the skin of the scratched?”
Syps’s friends inclined their heads at him, a question wiggling on the tip of their furry, or not-furry, noses.
“What?” Willy asked, scratching his little head with a paw.
Syps’s big eyes got bigger with worry that he didn’t make sense and he started rubbing his paws together. He rubbed his paws together when he was nervous or worried. He didn’t like not understanding things. And not being understood wasn’t great either, especially when it came to honey and scratches, his two favorite things.
“You know,” he said in a tiny voice, “like how if you give the same scratches to a treebear and a bushcat, it doesn’t feel the same?”
“Ah, well, yes,” Hertrude purred, “That’s very true.”
“It is?” Syps asked his eyes getting even bigger in surprise; he wasn’t right very often.
Hertrude nodded at him, and her kind eyes glittered.
“Woo-hoo!” Syps shouted. “I was right, I was right.”
Syps jumped around and Spoom complained, his voice squeaking in rhythm with Syps’s jumping.
Willy and Hertrude looked at them go back and forth for a moment.
“Ha!” Willy exclaimed. “I get it too.”
He flapped his arm-wings quickly and rose above the ground. Then he did a couple of flips in the air before landing next to Spoom on Syps’s back.
“Oh, Hi, Willy,” Spoom said over Syps’s shouts.
Syps was so excited he didn’t even notice when Willy grabbed onto his fur.
“I get it,” Willy told Spoom.
“You get what?” Spoom asked.
“Look,” Willy said.
He scratched Syps’s back with the tiny claws of his tiny paw. And nothing happened. Then he scratched at Spoom and Spoom giggled.
“Oh, that tickles,” he said
“See,” Willy said. “Same scratches, different scratchees.”
“Ho, ho, ho,” Spoom laughed, his furless face wrinkled in a big smile. “I get it too!”
End of Chapter IV, Part II.
To be continued…