Pudding Won’t Fit

Pudding was a bear, and he was very round.

All autumn he had eaten apples. Red apples, green apples, and apples with one bite already gone. When the apples ran out, he ate acorns. Then he found some more apples, so he ate those too.

Now the sky over the hill had gone soft and white, like the inside of a pillow. Pudding sniffed the air. Snow was coming. Every bear knows a bear must be in bed before the first snowflake falls.

“Bedtime,” said Pudding, and he gave a great big yawn.

His den was under the roots of a big old oak at the edge of the wood. It had a round little door, and in front of the door was a doormat. Pudding wiped his paws on it carefully. Left, right, left, right.

In went his head. In went his shoulders. His tummy did not go in at all.

Pudding backed out. He looked at the door. He looked at his tummy.

“Oh dear,” said Pudding.

“HONK!” said Goose.

Goose lived on the pond at the bottom of the hill, and she did everything loudly. She came flapping up the path. Goose had measured Pudding all autumn with a piece of string. Every week she tied one more knot in her string. Now there were nine knots.

Goose held the string across the round little door. It only reached the second knot. Then she wrapped the string around Pudding’s middle. It went all the way to the ninth knot.

“HONK,” said Goose. “Too round.”

“I did like those apples,” said Pudding.

Just then the ground between his feet went bumpy, and up popped a small pink nose. It was Mole. Mole was very small and very bossy.

“A bear on his own doorstep?” said Mole. “With snow coming? Not on my hill. Stand up straight. Face the door. Breathe in, Pudding!”

Pudding took a big breath. He took a very big breath. And that made him even rounder.

“Push, Goose!” said Mole.

Pudding wiped his paws on the doormat. Left, right, left, right. Goose put her feathery front against his bottom, and she pushed, and honked, and pushed.

In went his head. In went his shoulders. In went his tummy, nearly.

And there Pudding stuck, halfway in, with his round brown bottom sticking out into the cold.

“How is it in there?” said Goose.

“Lovely,” said Pudding. His voice came out all muffled. “My bed is lovely. My pillow is lovely. But my bottom is still outside.”

He wriggled backwards and backwards, and came out with a leaf on his nose.

Mole stamped one tiny foot. “Right,” said Mole. “I’m going in the back way.”

Mole dug down into the hill and was gone. A moment later, a small voice came from inside the den.

“Ready!” said Mole. “Breathe in, Pudding!”

Pudding took a big breath. He took the biggest breath he could. And that made him even rounder.

He wiped his paws on the doormat. Left, right, left, right. He pushed his front paws through the round little door, and Mole grabbed them both and pulled. Mole pulled and pulled, which is a lot of pulling for somebody so small.

In went his head. In went his shoulders. In went his tummy, nearly, nearly…

Thwop!

Out shot Pudding like a cork out of a bottle. He sat down hard on his doormat. And Mole came flying out too, still holding on, and landed right on top of his tummy.

Pudding laughed. Goose laughed. Mole sat on Pudding’s tummy and said, “Hmph.”

Goose watched Pudding’s tummy. Every time he laughed, it went down a little.

“HONK!” said Goose. “I have an idea.”

She took a long grey feather from under her wing. It was her very best feather, and it was very tickly.

“Breathe in, Pud—” said Mole.

“Not this time,” said Goose.

Pudding wiped his paws on the doormat. Left, right, left, right. He stood in front of the round little door. And Goose tickled his tummy with her long grey feather.

“Hee,” said Pudding.

Tickle, tickle, went the feather.

“Hee hee! Hoo hoo! Ha ha ha HA!” said Pudding.

He laughed so hard he had to hold his sides. He laughed until all the air came out of him, and he went soft and squashy, like a cushion when somebody sits on it.

“NOW!” said Mole.

Goose gave one small push, and Pudding slid straight in through the round little door.

Flump.

He did not stick at all.

And just then, the first snowflake came down. Then another, and another, slow and white. They landed on the doormat, and on Goose’s back, and on the end of Mole’s pink nose.

Goose and Mole wiped their feet on the doormat. Left, right, left, right. Then they went inside to tuck Pudding in.

Goose brought a beakful of dry leaves. Mole brought a pawful, which was not very many, but Mole was proud of them. They tucked the leaves under Pudding’s chin and over his toes.

“More on the tummy,” said Mole. “None on the nose.”

Pudding gave an enormous yawn. “I’m so glad you both came,” said Pudding. “Or I’d still be on the doormat.”

“I’ll miss you all winter,” said Goose.

“I’ll be right under your floor,” said Mole. “So I’ll only miss you a little.”

Pudding’s eyes were closing.

“Breathe out, Pudding,” said Goose, very softly.

Pudding let all his air go in one long, slow, sleepy puff. It made him a tiny bit less round, and a great deal more asleep.

Then he began to snore. It was a big, warm, rumbly snore, and it made the leaves on his tummy go up and down.

Goose and Mole tiptoed out. They put their heads close to the round little door.

“Goodnight, Pudding,” said Goose, in the quietest honk she had.

“Goodnight,” said Mole. “Sleep well. That’s an order.”

Then they pushed a little snow against the door, soft and thick, like a blanket. Then Goose went home to her pond, and Mole went home under the floor.

The snow fell on the hill, and on the wood, and on the doormat, which Pudding would not need again until spring.

And under the roots of the big old oak, tucked in his leaves, Pudding slept and snored, round and warm and happy, all winter long.