During Mouse’s recent visit with his dear friend, Old Possum, after they had finished their lunch and their walks and their tea, and were ensconced in comfy chairs in front of the fire, they shared stories from their ancestors.
One of these was a story Mouse learned as a boy: the tale of a distant ancestor who lived in a forest of hardwoods and evergreens and spring-blooming dogwoods, all perched on the side of a mountain. After heavy rains, rocky outcrops leapt and splashed with rushing creeks and waterfalls, and the woods were full of giant orb-weaver spiders and owls.
At this point in the original telling, Mouse hid his face in his paws. But his mother hugged him and said to not forget that the forest was also home to delicate wildflowers; lacy ferns; sweet, juicy berries; and plenty of mossy nesting spots and soft, shady hiding places for brave little mice.