The dormouse was a jolly plump old fellow, clad in a rust-colored jerkin, his white beard curled and trimmed neatly. An infant mole, who could not sleep because of the onset of spring, sat beside him on a mossy beechlog in the orchard. Together they shared an early breakfast of oatcakes, hot from the kitchens, and two of last autumn’s russet apples. Dawn was touching the earth with its rosy paws, promising sunny spring days as a compensation for the long winter Redwall Abbey had endured. Soft white clouds with golden underbellies hung on the still air, dewdrops glistened on new green grass, budding narcissus and snowdrop awaited the coming of the sun-warmed day.
The dormouse nodded sagely. “Soon be pickin’ a Nameday for this good season, aye, soon.”
The small mole chewed slowly at his oatcake, wrinkling a black button snout as he gazed up at the elder.
“You’m said you’m tell oi a story, zurr.”
The dormouse polished an apple on his jerkin. “D’you like my stories, Burrem?”
The little fellow smiled. “Burr aye, oi serpintly do, zurr!”
His friend settled down comfortably on the grass, propping his back against the log.
“Right then, it’s a good long one. We’ll have to break off for lunch and tea, supper, too, maybe. Ah well, here goes. Once upon a time …”
