The Little Hedgehog and the Wobbly Whistle

Morning came to Hazel Hollow soft and green. Up in the old oak, Squirrel was sorting her basket of acorns, and acorn caps tumbled down like tiny brown hats. One landed upside-down on Little Hedgehog's nose. "A hat for me," she said, and balanced it between two prickles, crooked as anything. Squirrel kept two more caps, one in each paw.

Wren fluttered down and sang out one of her own bird whistles — a long, watery trill that curled to the top of the oak. Squirrel answered with her two caps: clack, clack. "A tune!" said Wren. "Clacks and whistles together. The Hazel Hollow Tune, just for us three, just for fun."

"You're in our tune," said Squirrel. "That cap of yours can peep." Little Hedgehog held her cap, took a breath, and blew. Pfff. Then — peep. So small it barely reached her own ears. "It's only a peep," she whispered. "I'd better practise first, and join when I can do it properly." "Come whenever you like," said Wren. "The tune will wait."

That night, Little Hedgehog nearly tucked the cap under her leaf-bed and forgot it. But next morning she carried it to the far meadow, where only the daisies could hear. "Ten peeps," she told herself, "then I stop and nibble." A wobble came out. Then another. "Wobbly peeps still peep."

Every day after that: ten peeps in the meadow. Some came out round as raindrops. Some fizzed like hiccups. And every day, drifting over from the hollow, she heard the game going on without her — clack, clack, trill — and her toes tapped all by themselves.

By the mossy log, Squirrel and Wren practised their parts. Squirrel wanted her clacks steady as a heartbeat, not a hurry. Wren wanted a trill like a stream running downhill. And in the middle of the tune they left a small hole of quiet. When Little Hedgehog came to listen, they said, "That gap is yours, whenever you like. No rush at all."

One afternoon, Little Hedgehog stood behind the bracken with her cap, listening. Clack, clack. Trill. Then the gap arrived — a little hole of quiet, just sitting there, waiting. Every spike on her back said, not yet, not wobbly, not in front of everyone. But her toes were already tapping.

So she walked out, one small step and then another, right up to the mossy log. "Is the gap still free?" she asked. "Always," said Squirrel, and set her caps going — clack, clack. Wren trilled. Little Hedgehog took a small breath and peeped straight into the gap.

The peep wobbled. It fizzed. It squeaked like a door. Nobody laughed at her and nobody stopped. Squirrel kept the beat, steady as a heartbeat, and the gap came round again. Peep, went Little Hedgehog. The next time round: peep-peep. Squirrel's tail swished. Wren fluffed up like a dandelion.

But on the fourth time round, one peep went missing altogether. Only breath came out, and a small sad pfff. Little Hedgehog looked down at the cap in her paws. "Wobbly peeps still peep," she told herself, very quietly. And when the gap came round again, there it was — small, round and steady as a raindrop.

They played the Hazel Hollow Tune three more times, for nobody but themselves and one beetle who had wandered up the log. Clack, clack. Trill. Peep. Then Squirrel danced a jig with her own tail, Wren looped the low branches, and Little Hedgehog laughed so hard her cap wobbled in her paws.

As the sun went down, Little Hedgehog put her cap back on her nose, crooked as anything. "Same again tomorrow?" she asked. "Same again tomorrow," said Squirrel and Wren together. Little Hedgehog took her cap down for one last peep, just for goodnight.