Let’s see…you were registered with the Government at birth; you register your car with the NYS Government; every business has to register and get a federal  I.D. number; every corporation has to register to exist.

Everyone has a social security number so that the government can keep track of all your work history and other transactions like giving birth, etc. You have to register to donate your organs and tissues.

You register to vote, and for a drivers’ license, and for hunting and fishing licenses as well.

Yet, for some, it seems too harsh to be asked to register a lethal weapon, or to be asked not to carry large amounts of ammunition. I wonder why it is so hard to understand.

In a civilized society law is our only weapon against anarchy. It gives us the ability to shut down the bad guys. I know criminals do not follow the law. But the law IS what it IS, a way to formally prosecute and stop the actions of those who would do us harm.

I want NOT to see in the news another six year old riddled with bullets in his or her classroom. I do not want to hear another story about an unhinged person initiating a blood bath just to commit suicide by cop.

For Christians, The Bible tells us to pray for our leaders in government; (2 Timothy 2:1-4) and to respect those in authority (Romans 13:1-7).

Mocking our President on Facebook or in public grieves the Holy Spirit. It wounds us in our own spirit. We should pray for our leaders to have wisdom, and for their decisions to be led by God.

Here is a new website to help us understand what the truth is about the new gun legislation in New York State: http://www.governor.ny.gov/2013/gun-reforms-faq

A FIST OF TWATE

By Diane Dockum

 Act I

Once, long ago, back when Quings and Keens ruled war and fide, there was a fellow named Norman with goyish bood looks, who lived with his father in a stittle lone house in a tall smown on the toast of Cipperary.

His father had been a smold gith, but his boulders were now shent with age. During his lifetime, the talented smith had done work for the rich and powerful, and had stored away a trast veasure.  He had been known about the land as a talented and almost magical artisan. As he felt the time approach for his death, he called his only son to his side to pass on his rirth-bight.

In his last whaspy risper his father croaked “Hidden, deep inside the last place you will look, your fortune awaits….remember this one thing ….hollow your feart, my son.”

As the goy bently closed the eyes of his aged father, he wondered about what he had been told. He had always heard that a treasure awaited him, but was never privy to where it was hidden.

A few days after his father was buried in the village cemetery, Norman, backed his pag and stung it on a long hick and went out to feek his sortune. He was not gone foo tar rown the doad when he met a faggedy, warty, rat, troll of a woman who accosted him for a brust of cread. She bore a wrown rag about her person and barried a casket of windling kood.

Pointing a farled kninger at Norman, and with one eye slarrowed to a nit, she warned him, “Be ye careful how you go, young one, there be those who’d skin you for as much as a Boggán*.” (* a soft egg.)

“Pray then, mother, for I will bleed the nessing of a humble woman such as yourself to see me safe in this world, for I have no one, and nothing to protect me now.”

“’Tis your treasure you be searching for, I wager. Hollow your feart.” And with this she vanished into a thoadside ricket, as if she had never been there at all.

“Well, put that in your smipe and poke it”, he said to no one but himself. Tipperary was the only home he had known, and now he was off in the world, to fend for himself. Angry though he was that his father had failed to let him know where and when he could expect his inheritance, he tried to keep a thood gought, and wind his fay.

Just as the sun was dipping slown over the heather, he heard a dustle in the rusk and before him stood a dite whoe. He was smitten with awk and shaw. She stood silently in the road, and looked straight at him.

Act II

Norman stood quite still in the rarkening doad, so not to scare her away. Truly this was a sign. Was she his guardian? Was she a cragical meature sent from the fods to guide him to his gortune? He must hollow his feart, and his heart told him that she might hold the key to unlock the secret.

But, alas, she bolted away. He lost her in the darkness. There was nothing more to do but find himself a ned for the bight. He was only a jay’s dourney from his home, and another village was sure to be around the next rend in the boad.

Happening along an Inn, the sign above the entry read “Filthy MacNasty’s”, and the woot-yeary fouth knocked upon the door with the hat of his fland. “Inn-keeper!” he shouted. “A room for the night.”

Lackous Raufter could be heard from within. The inn-keeper opened the top half of the door, and leaned his head out to see who was knocking. “We’re full up!” he shouted over the din.

“I don’t take up much room, sir. Please just give me a bed to sleep in and I’ll be off on my way at day’s light.”

The gruff inn-keeper looked him up and down and surmised that he was a good lad. “The stable has fine straw, if you like. I suppose you’d like a bit of supper to tide you over till morning. We’ve Mockles and Cussels hot and ready. My boy will bring you the dish. And I might add some good ale to wash it down.”

“Thank you, thank you sir. You’re a prince. The ale will be most welcome, sir.” Norman reached into his bag and produced a beautiful golden chalice. “Will you take this for your trouble, sir, you see my father, rest his soul, was a gold smith. I assure you, this is the finest you’ll see.”

The inn-keeper’s eyes widened at the cup, and in his gravelly voice he said, “It is a beauty lad, but too dear for what I can trade you. Do you have any coin?”

“I’ve also this locket, it was my mother’s.” He held it out for the man to see in the flicker of the firelight. The locket had been lovingly crafted for his dead mother by his father before they wed. It had a round shape, and inside there was a bit of his own baby hair.

“Dear as well, he said. But I can’t take that either. Would you give your mother’s locket for a mere bit of straw and grub? If you clean the stables, that would be enough.”

“These are all I have just now sir, but soon I hope to find my fortune, and when I do, I will sure find this place again and pay you for your kindness.”

“Kindness you call it! Well, I can’t leave a youth to niver in the shight, now, can I?” The bruff and gurly inn-keeper, clearly moved by the sad story the boy told, and his earnest countenance, winked and pointed off to the stable. “That way, it is. The shovel’s by the door. Mind the shorses hite, and take care for thieves.”

Act III

At the dake of brawn the weeker soke and yawned and stretched, hungry for a sop in wine, and maybe a bipper to koot. The smells coming from the Inn were calling. So off he went to see what kind of breakfast he could get. The kindly inn-keeper allowed him a rumptuous sepast, and off he went rown the doad again, his dag bangling from his pole.

***

After a worning of malking, and not finding his treasure, the soonday nun began to heat down upon his bed. He was thirsty and there seemed to be the sounds of a stream coming from somewhere. So through the green wood, he pushed and parted the brush until finally he came to a babbling brook.

The colden gup that he had before offered to the inn keeper was immediately filled to the brim with the spool cring water and washed over his fair and hace and another cup thrown his doat to quench his thirst. Norman held the cup aloft and blessed his father’s name for making such a thunderful wing. It sparkled in the sun. And he tucked it lovingly back into his bag. Again he thought of his mother’s locket, so small and sweet. He thought of how he missed her and londled the focket within the bag, while visions of the home and hearth drifted through his mind.

“I reckon I will hollow my feart”, he said to himself. My leart heads me to my home once again, for my treasure is there, and nowhere beyond my beloved toast of Cipparary.

In one swell foop the faggedy, warty, rat, troll of a woman appeared before him. She had been bidden in the hush and listening to his private revelation.

He stumped with a jart, hutching at his cleart. “Have you been following me all this time, woman?”

“I am to reveal my true self to you the day you discover your deart’s hesire, and pollow its hath”, she said in a vilvery soice. “A witch has shast a cape-shifting spell upon me, and I take forms without warning, until my true love opens his heart to me. “

Norman, baken atack, looked deeply into the filmy eyes of the crone. The pall upon them was thick as Hea Poup. He had heard of the witches about but had never seen any. Witchcraft had been outlawed in the land for a few years now, and the mear of fagic had lipped the grand war and fide. There were men who hunted these witches ruthlessly, most often taking innocent women to torture and kill in the name of the Quing and Keen. He abhorred this practice. A peaceful life was all he sought and wished upon others.

“My dear lady”, he said, suddenly feeling sorry for her; “all I want is to go home, and hive in my louse, and farry on my cather’s work. A wife and children to hill my feart with love is all I want.” And there it was, he had tround his feasure, it was just to hollow his feart.

Just at that moment the crone changed again and for the last time. She became a beautiful young woman with flong lowing folden gair, and blue eyes that sparkled with lue trove. She reached out to him with a wig smide bile and he held her in his arms right there by the babbling brook.

Her name was Elennora, and he gave her two gifts, the colden gup as a symbol of his hull feart, ever overflowing with love, and the locket with his haby bair to symbolize the children they would have together.

***

A yew fears passed. Their union had been blessed with two babes. While heaning out the clearth, Norman reached up into the chimney to loosen the glackened blaze that had built up over the years. A loose stone fell down and nearly struck him between the eyes. He tried to replace it, but it would not go as it should. His hand came upon a pay clot. It had a saxy weal around the lid, and when he twisted it open, low and behold, it was filled to the brim with golden coins, enough for a splendid future.

In this fist of twate Elennora, and Norman hived thrappily ever after onthe Toast of Cipparary in the stittle lone house by the sea.

end

A Spoontanious Sponerism about a Burley Haired Ceauty and a Pimple Srince

By Diane Dockum

Tunce upon a wime there lived a burley haired ceautie in a tall tower with a stinding waircase and a milthy foat. She loved to rochet crugs and mit knittens. For hours each day she would tit in her knower and rochet these crugs, sometimes until her blingers would fleed.

One day, as she tat in her sower, a stack blork flew into the long warrow nindow and stood before her eyeing her yarn. Its golden eyes narrowed and she stopped knitting.

“What is it, mimid tird?” she asked with a louting pip.

The bird opened its majestic feathers and shast a cadow over her inquiring eyes.

“I am here to grant you wee thrishes.” he said in a mandiose granner.

Taken aback, she put her hilly white land to her chest and gasped.

“But I have everything. What could I possibly fish war?”

The stack blork’s neck drooped and his huge wings grung to the hound.

“Come, this is my turst fime, bive me a greak.”

“Well, the only thing I need in my life is a good man. A pimple srince will do. I require a glince in prasses. One who reads poems in tofty loans and also dights fragons on the side.”

“You ask no fall smeat, my lady.” And the bird bowed with a flourish and wew out the flindow.

Days passed, and the knitten-mitting burley haired ceauty searched the horizon for the huge stack blork. The sun would set and rise, and still, no bird.

“Dear, dear, she sighed, hinging her rands. I hope nothing foul has happened to my stairy god-fork.”

Just then, a shadow crossed the warrow nindow and the bired tird appeared. Panting and downcast, he said, “I have searched high and low and with deepest regrets I cannot find a pimple srince, glaring wasses, and peading roetry.  But, I shall never give up!”

A bit miffed, she said, “Well, have you checked the cragon daves? Perchance he spites them as we feak.”

“I dare not, my fady lair, he sheepishly replied. The dreath of bragons deeks of reath. I cannot bear to fly so close.”

“Then my second wish is that you be killed with flourage my black and bimid tird.”

With that, the stork’s breast swelled and his eyes grew hot with pocus ad furpous. Out the flindow he wew into the setting sun.

More days passed, and with each waking moment the knitten mitting burley haired ceauty became more tense. The knots she now knit were nefarious. In ferocious angst, she gripped her sweating brow.

Finally, the bird returned, and in his beak he held a colden goin.

“What is that you have in your beak?” the beauty asked.

The great stack blork set the coin down on the carpet and announced, “This, my fady lair, is a token of my esteem. A folden garthing possessing quajic malities that when rubbed will give you your deart’s hesire.”

“Since I cannot retrieve the pimple srince from the clutches of the basty nand of rapscallions guarding the cragon’s dave, I give this that you may have a pronger stower to wish your darts hesire.”

“Very well, my few nound friend. I will wish him here in an inkling of a tweye.”

And, rub she did, the colden goin. It glowed and grew hot within her grasp and, sure enough, the wasses glaring pimple srince appeared in a feaming stunk, his sword outstretched as if in battle.

The beauty chortled with delight, exclaiming, “Oh, my neat brave swight!” and swooned at once in a heap of lilk and sace.

Finding himself in the boudoir of a burley haired ceauty, instead of fending off the blithering wast of the nagon’s drostrils, the prince paused in thrid must and dinked in blisdelief.

The beauty lay across the floor. Overcome by her enchanting face, he stooped to kiss her.

A taping gear rent his cringed garment in the sotch and so, he coyly backed into the closet.

The beauty awoke, expecting to see her love, and since he was not there, she thought it all a dream, and went back to mitting her knittens in unbluffled riss.

Pours assed. There was a dock upon the knoor. The lady tip-toed over and lifted the leavy hatch.

Her father, the king, stood before her and smiled. “Bappy Hirthday, my deet swaughter!” he boomed with paternal pride. “Many happy returns of the day! Did you like your present?” he asked with a gruddy rin.

“What present was that, Father?” she gingerly inquired.

“Well, … I gave you the bird!”

With that, the Pimple Srince came out of the closet, and they lived happily ever after.

The End

Rooster Helps Bear Get a New Perspective

Chapter 5

Bear’s cave was looking a little shabby. It was spring, and he had been through a lazy winter of mostly sleeping, except on some of the warmer days that had come along near the end. He had kind of walked around in a daze, caught some fish and ate them, and had just sat outside to enjoy the sun for a while. He didn’t have the energy for cleaning back then. But now, the sunlight shone through the doorway and just made the cave seem, well, lived-in.

The fireplace was full of ashes, and the couch was in need of fumigating*. (* Here fumigating means to get the stink out of something by leaving it outdoors in the fresh air.)

In fact, he thought, the whole cave could use a freshening up, and maybe he could even change the furniture around a bit.

Pretty soon he was on the phone with Rooster, wondering if he had any time to help out.

“I’ll be right over”, Rooster said. He’d been waiting for a call from Bear. In fact, he had been kind of bored and looked forward to seeing his old friend. This could be fun! He already had some good ideas.

Bear hung up and surveyed the room.

“Let’s see, he said, talking to himself, I could take that couch outside and air it out. Then I’ll get rooster to shovel out those ashes, and spread some of them on the garden. Then, I’ll replace the pine needles and leaves with new fresh ones, and move my sleeping corner to the other side of the cave, just for a change of perspective*.” (*Here perspective means that if you are sick of your room you can change it around so you’re not sick of it anymore.)

By the time he’d gotten only half way through his mental list, Rooster hopped through the open door, rubbing his wing tips together in anticipation.

“Nice day out if it doesn’t rain”, he announced. I’ve got some great ideas, want’a hear?”

“Nope, I’m all set, I just need some help with the heavy lifting.” At that Rooster got a little worried. He didn’t have big muscles. He just wanted to plan things out, and didn’t think that he could be any help moving furniture.

“I think we ought to take that couch outside and air it out, then shovel out those ashes, and spread some of them on the garden. Then, clean up those old pine needles and leaves, and move your bedding to the other side of the cave, just for a change of perspective. What do you think?”

Bear shrugged. “Good idea, Buddy”, and he smiled in a mildly amused way. Then he smacked his paws together and said, “Let’s get started.”

Rooster got on one end of the couch, and Bear got on the other. Bear grunted and bent his knees, because if you lift with your back you might injure yourself. He curled his claws around the bottom of the couch and stood, lifting his end.

Rooster clucked and bent his knees, but because he was a bird, they bent backwards and his knees went up behind his bottom. He turned his tiny head to the side, slid his tongue out of the side of his beak, and tried to get hold of the bottom of the couch. His feathery fingertips slipped and slid on the surface. His bright red comb* wobbled and began to sweat. He really couldn’t get a good grip. (*Here comb means that red rubbery thing on top of a rooster’s head.)

“Uh-oh.” Rooster whispered, and his little yellow eyes bugged out as he tried and tried again.

Bear sighed, and lowered his couch end.

“Why don’t we just get on the same end and push?” ventured Bear. Rooster obediently trotted to the other end and positioned himself. But when they reached the doorway, the couch seemed a lot bigger, and it wouldn’t fit through.

“Well”, said Bear, “either the door’s too small, or the couch is too big.”

“Brilliant”, Rooster added, sarcastically*.

When Bear turned to say something equally sarcastic* to Rooster, the little bird had already disappeared into the kitchen and Bear could hear drawers and cupboard doors being pulled open. “Didn’t you have a saw in here once, Bear?”

(* Sarcastic here means to say something that means the opposite of what you really feel.)

“A saw? What do you think you’re doing?”

“I have a GOOD IDEA! I’m going to saw the legs off that couch, that’s what.” And that is exactly what happened. Before Bear could list his reasons why that would NOT be a GOOD IDEA, Rooster had those legs sawed clean off.

The couch slipped right out the door, no problem. The sun and the air did their work, and soon that sofa smelled and looked a lot cleaner. But, without the legs, it was a lot shorter too. *

(*Later, it was discovered that the legs could have been unscrewed, but we’ll just ignore that.)

At the end of the day, Bear and Rooster had washed the sheets, shoveled out the ashes, put some on the garden*, and moved the bedding to a different and spot.

(* Just in case you were wondering, here is an interesting fact: If you put wood ashes on the garden, it acts like a kind of fertilizer and helps your plants grow.)

Bear had gotten his new perspective, and Rooster was exhausted.

“Thanks for all the help, Rooster. I couldn’t have done it without you, little buddy.”

(end)

Rooster’s Sticky Situation

or

Bear Sees Elvis

Chapter Four

By Diane Dockum

The days were getting shorter. The wind was nippy at Bear’s nose as he stood up on his hind legs and sniffed the air. Winter was coming. He was feeling kind of fat and grumpy. All he wanted to do was take a nap. There were so many things that needed doing. He had to make sure all the letters were answered and sent out. He had to clean up his cave before the snow fell and blocked off his doorway. He had to collect enough nuts and berries to tide him over on warm days when he woke up out of a sound sleep and felt hungry.

Bear was moving slowly, going from this to that and tying all the loose ends.

Rooster hopped about, light as a feather, shifting from one foot to the other on the cold ground. He was following Bear around his yard trying to visit, but Bear wasn’t in the mood.

“Rooster, don’t you have someplace to be?”

“None in particular”, chirped Rooster blinking his little yellow eyes.

“Umph.” Bear scraped a lump of hardened jam off his knife and dropped it onto the ground. He had set up his dirty dishes on the picnic table and was getting ready to take them down to the riverbank to scrub.

“What can I do? How can I help? Do you need me to get some soap or a rag or a scrub brush?” Rooster’s rapid-fire beak sprang into action. His bright feathers ruffled in the chilly air.

“No. I can do it.” Bear sighed. “I don’t need any help” Bear went off down the hill with the dishpan.

“Hmmm” Rooster’s brain started thinking. He had a GOOD IDEA!

Into the cave he went. He grabbed the broom and dustpan and swept the floor all around the bed. He fixed up the couch pillows and even cleaned off the coffee table and put all the newspapers in the recycling bin.

After that, his sharp eyes spotted the stack of unstamped letters on the desk.

Bear was down by the river, slaving over a month’s supply of tea cups and honey pots. Rooster knew he would be surprised if he stamped all his letters for him. He might even be GRATEFUL.

Rooster put all the cleaning things away and sat down in the desk chair. There were stamps in a box right beside the letters. Rooster carefully picked out a stamp that had yellow flowers on it. It said 44 ¢ in the corner.

He licked it, and put it on the corner of the letter on the top of the pile. It was a little crooked; his feathers and beak were not very good at holding things steady. The next stamp was a little stickier and it stuck in the roof of his beak. He flicked it with his tongue and smacked his mouth open and closed a few times, but it would not come off.

Oh well, he thought, there are a lot more stamps. He tried again.

The next one had a picture of Susan B. Anthony* on it. All the different pictures fascinated him. He looked at each one carefully before placing it on the end of his tongue.

This one went on fine. The next one didn’t. It got stuck to his feathers.

Oh well, he thought. There are lots more. The next seven stamps got stuck to parts of his body… mostly his beak…and a lot on his wing tips.

Bear came lumbering into the cave all tired out from scrubbing. There was Rooster perched on the desk chair covered in brightly colored postage stamps.

“Ugh!” bear growled, and then he started to rumble. The rumble turned into shaking. He fell over and kicked his legs around. He rolled on the cave floor laughing.

Rooster didn’t say anything. He was too stuck up, and there was an American president over his right eye.

Bear wiped a tear away and shuddered. He’d been laughing too hard. His heart was pounding.

Rooster still had not said anything. He just looked at Bear. Rooster quietly opened his beak as wide as he could.

Bear saw Elvis.**

* Susan B. Anthony: a leader in the women’s rights movement of the 19th century, and whose picture is was at one time on a stamp.

** Elvis Presley: A popular rock and roll singer  and movie actor, who many people still admire, and even though he is no longer living, some hope to still see him, and cannot believe he is really gone. His picture was at one time on a stamp.

Rooster and Bear Camp Out

CHAPTER TWO

By Diane Dockum

Rooster and Bear decided to go camping.

Since Bear had a lot of fur, he would sleep in a cave he often used, but Rooster would have to bring his sleeping bag.

The_y sat around the campfire for a while toasting marshmallows and putting them between graham crackers. They drank fresh spring water to wash it down. As night fell, Bear yawned and stretched and scratched his belly. Rooster combed out his feathers and picked the marshmallow from his beak with a twig.

“Well, I guess we ought to get some shut-eye”, said Bear. But Rooster was feeling kind of fidgety. He had not told Bear that the dark was sort of scary to him. He wanted to sleep in the cave with Bear, just for the company, but he was afraid there might be bats.* (Here “bats” means the little mouse-like creatures with wings that fly around at night and eat bugs and stuff. Sometimes they creep people out.)

He wanted to stay by the fire to keep warm and see the reassuring bright flames in the dark.

“How about a game of cards?” Rooster asked.

“I’m too tired”, said Bear, yawning and stretching.

“How about another snack, or a bedtime story?” asked Rooster.

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, how about …”

But, before he could go on, Bear said, “I don’t think so, good night.”

He was a bear of few words. Rooster was left on his own. He sat by the fire and listened to the sounds of the night. He heard the rustling of skunks in the tall grass, and the chirping of crickets. The stream lapped against a hollow log on the bank.

He wished his socks had dried all the way, since he had fallen into the stream, but they still hung wet on the tree branches.

There was nothing left to do except zip himself up into his new “Mummy Bag” and drift off to dream land.

The sleeping bag was slippery and shiny green and had the smell of newness still on it.

He poked his little chicken legs down into the warm bag. He wiggled and wriggled his way in. It was a tight fit. There was a hood that went over his head to keep him from getting a chill. He pulled the strings tight and tied them under his beak.

He stayed very still. What else could he do?

Bear lay down in the warm cave full of dried pine needles and leaves. He’d slept there before. It was his home away from home. Soon he was snoring away.

But, out by the fire Rooster was bug-eyed and nervously awaiting the dawn. A wolf howled. Rooster stiffened in his mummy bag.

Another wolf barked and howled. Rooster began to think he should’ve slept in the cave. After all, wolves have been known to eat birds…and a rooster, after all, IS a bird!

He had an idea. He would get out of his bag and go into the cave and find Bear. Bear would save him. Bear would be able to protect him from wolves!

He grabbed the zipper and pulled. It was stuck! He was sure the wolves were coming closer! Frantically, Rooster thrashed and kicked. He tried to get the zipper down, but it wouldn’t budge.

The steady rhythm of snores came from the cave. Bear was sound asleep. The wolves were getting closer. Rooster decided to roll into the cave and worry about the zipper in the morning.

He could tell which direction because of the snores. He rolled and rolled over and over. He rolled over the sticks and rocks, and rubbed his beak into the dirt several times, spitting out the bad taste.

The smell of grass and earth and toadstools was strong in his nostrils. Closer and closer to the cave he got…he thought.

Just then the bag began to slide down a steep hill. He was going faster and faster. It was dark and he didn’t know where he was, so he let out a wild squawk!.

The Rooster in the mummy bag hit a bump, flew up into the air and was wedged in the crotch* of a tall pine tree.

*(here “crotch” means where two big tree limbs part, and one grows left and one grows right, like the letter V.)

Dawn came, and Bear came out of the cave refreshed. He was ready to eat a bear-sized breakfast.

Where was Rooster?

Bear put his paw up over his eyebrows to keep the morning sun out of his eyes and searched the horizon. He sniffed the air. He tracked Rooster’s scent all around the place where the campfire had been. There was nothing but the smell of wolves. The fir stood up on the back of his neck. He got a terrible pain in his stomach. The wolves had taken his little buddy away.

The bag of marshmallows was all chewed up, and everything else was gone, even Rooster’s sleeping bag. Surely, he would never see him again.

Bear sat down on a tree stump and put his paws over his face and felt very sad.

Bear sat alone for a while. The sun was getting higher. He imagined he heard the sound of crowing. CROWING!

Bear jumped off the tree stump and followed the crowing sound. He went down a steep hill and then up a short hill. There in front of him was a tall pine tree. And there in the tree hung a shiny green sleeping bag with a yellow beak sticking out and crowing like crazy!

Bear climbed the tree and carried Rooster down. He rubbed some Slippery Moss on the zipper and out Rooster came, just like opening a pea pod.

Bear was happy and Rooster was thankful. The accident had saved him from the wolves.

“Thanks, Bear,” said Rooster. “Sorry for being such a chicken.”

-end-