Little Mouse Lost - Chapter 1
A Christmas Eve Adventure - Chapter 1
Synopsis
On Christmas Eve, a sudden winter storm leaves Little Mouse far from home and alone in the Whispering Woods. He sets off on a journey through snow and starlight—meeting both danger and new friends.
From Hedgehog’s cozy hollow to the moonlit path of Winfred Wolf, Little Mouse discovers that even the smallest traveler can shine bright in the darkest winter.
A classic holiday tale of bravery, friendship, and the magic of coming home.
Preface
May you always find the glow of home through the hush of winter, and may kindness meet you at every bend in the path.
Part I
Chapter One: The Gathering Storm
Little Mouse set out with a satchel of twine and a hopeful heart through the first snowfall of winter. The forest was quiet in that deep winter way, where it burrowed into the thick layer of leaves on the ground to make a nest. Twigs were covered in frost like crystal cuffs, and the sky was woolly and gray. Little Mouse stopped in his path and looked up at the clouds shadowing the sky—he thought they looked as if a great lamb were drifting just above the treetops.
Little Mouse’s whiskers quivered with purpose. He knew the berry thicket two meadows over kept a few hardy clusters for those who asked politely. He always asked. “Good morning,” he said to the brambles as he approached, tipping an invisible cap. “I won’t be long. I only need enough for Mama’s Christmas pudding.” The brambles, sleepy and proud as ancient grandmothers, allowed him to nose past their thorns. Little Mouse worked steadily, filling his satchel with a patience that would have made his father proud. He hummed while he worked—a tune Mama Mouse always sang when she stitched quilts.
Come home, my dear, through frost and fern; the kettle’s on and the lanterns burn.
The first snowflake drifted down to land softly on his nose. It was not the ordinary kind, not the everyday flake that falls and vanishes. This flake lingered. “You are late for the far meadow,” it whispered, in the shy voice of a bell rung under a blanket.
Little Mouse’s ears perked. “Late?” he repeated, for it is best to be polite to snow when it grows talkative.
“Late,” chimed three more flakes, drifting down to rest on his whiskers, his shoulder, his satchel of berries. “The wind is waking. The paths will hide. The forest will draw its curtains and make finding your way difficult.”
“I don’t want my path to be hidden,” Little Mouse said, looking over his shoulder at the faint trail of his pawprints in the brittle grass. “I need to see my path so I can find my way home.”
“Then be swift,” sighed the snow, and the sky threw a wind toward Little Mouse that made the pine boughs bow.
The storm did not arrive all at once; it advanced slowly, unfolding detail by deliberate detail. The first gust disturbed the carpet of leaves. The second made the fallen leaves swirl in small eddies about Little Mouse’s feet. The third rolled down the hill, gathering strength and lifting Little Mouse off his tiny feet for a second.
He clutched the satchel and hurried back, but the path he had taken on his way out already looked different. Looming darkness began to change the shapes and colors of the forest. The familiar birch with its curling paper bark was shadowed and bulky. The stump that had looked like a friendly chair now resembled a crouching stranger.
“Don’t worry,” Little Mouse told himself, as mice do when they are worried. “The wind and snow are not that strong; I will surely find my way.”
Little Mouse found that bravery, however, could not make a map appear where there is none. He turned left where he should have gone right. He passed a log, making note of the size and shape, then another log that reminded him too much of the first. Was he walking in circles? The darkness crept closer. The wind and snow gathered and grew louder. Soon, Little Mouse’s paw prints trod on fresh snow disappeared as quickly as they were made.
He tried to listen and look for a landmark—the chuckle of the brook, the clack of dry seedpods—but the wind mashed sounds together and swirled them into the dusk. Trees blurred into one another like distant candles. His breath puffed into the air and then hurried away without him.
Time, when you are small and the world has become a single color, is a peculiar thing. In the forest being covered in snow, time stretched in front of Little Mouse like a road, mysterious and winding. Time marched on as he walked until his legs ached and his tail grew stiff from the cold. He walked until his mind conjured the tune his mother loved, and he hummed as he wandered to keep his mind off being lost and being cold.
At last, he stopped beneath a crooked hawthorn and pressed his paws to his chest to warm them. He knew he could not rest long. Cold has a way of stealing warmth and energy from you. He thought of the burrow—of the braided rug and the acorn-lid cups, of the lanterns made from snail shells and tallow, of the way Papa Mouse’s laughter made the rafters shake. He thought of his sisters who braided ribbons out of grass and giggled over their crooked handiwork. He thought of Mama, always at the stove on winter afternoons, humming her brave songs and tasting the pudding with the wisdom of queens.
“I must go home,” he said aloud, his voice sounding nervous and quaking. “I must find my way,” he repeated in a firm tone to himself.
The snow softened, as if heeding his thoughts. For a few steps the wind died. A path of sorts appeared—a mere suggestion of a track curving between two pine shadows. Little Mouse squared his shoulders—a difficult task when you are mostly round—and stepped forward onto the path.
He did not notice the pair of eyes watching from the lee side of a log. He did not notice the orange gleam of a coat blending with weed-stems and dusk. The watching eyes blinked once, slowly, in a manner both lazy and threatening.
“Little traveler,” murmured the owner of the watching eyes, his voice as smooth as water over the river stones. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”
Little Mouse froze. The storm had paused; danger had found its moment. He lifted his eyes to meet those of a creature who always seemed to appear when warmth was most wanted, and to offer it at the worst possible price.
“Home,” said Little Mouse, quietly and very politely. “I am going home.”
“So am I,” said Sly Fox, and smiled without showing his teeth. “So am I.”
