Pippin wiggled through the tall meadow grass, swaying left, swaying right. Far beyond the trees, two big peaked mountains stood under the blue sky. He kept going.
He stopped. Tiptoeing on his paws, Pippin craned his long neck up. The wind tugged his tail. The grass ticked his whiskers.
He turned to trot home, but the field stretched on and on. No burrow. No path. Just wide green grass and two hazy peaks. Pippin dropped his ears and sat down in the middle.
A blade of grass slapped his nose. Pippin thought, "Mama? Papa?" The words bounced off the tall grass and faded into nothing. No answer came.
Boop! A bluebird dropped from a high branch and landed right on his nose. "Twee-twee!" it chirped, tilting its head toward the row of trees.
The bluebird flitted ahead. Pippin scampered after, following the tree line past a splashing creek. The sun dipped low and the sky turned orange.
Then— two big brown noses and a fluffy gray one pressed against his cheek at the burrow. "Pip-pip-pip!" they said all at once.
Pippin wiggled into the warm burrow, three noses close together in the dark. Outside, the bluebird sang one last "twee." The sunset painted the two mountains pink.
