Loamhedge Read Free Page B

bent to retrieve it.
    Martha came awake, stifling a yawn and rubbing her eyes. “Dearie me, I must have nodded off!”
    Returning the hefty volume to Martha’s lap, the ottercook winked at her. “Who’d blame ye, with all this sun about. I could lie down right here an’ take a nap myself!”
    Martha saw a group of Dibbuns approaching from around the orchard hedge. “You wouldn’t sleep for long, my friend. Look, here comes trouble!”
    The Abbeybabes descended upon the haremaid’s chair. Muggum, a tiny mole who was their ringleader, climbed up onto Martha’s lap, rumbling away in his quaint molespeech. “Yur, Miz Marth’, do ee singen us’n’s ee song?”
    The haremaid eyed him good-naturedly. “Which one would you like me to sing?”
    Toran interrupted with his suggestion. “A pretty day deserves a pretty song, miss. Sing a spring song!”
    The squirrelbabe Shilly added her request. “Da one where uz clappa paws!”
    Buffle the shrewbabe, who was the smallest of all, nodded solemnly. “Gurbbadurrguddun!”
    Shilly translated. “Him says that be a good ’un.”
    Martha sat up straight, exchanging a smile with Toran. “Well, Buffle’s word is good enough for me. Here goes.”
    The Dibbuns raised their paws, ready to clap, as Martha’s melodious voice soared out.
    Â 
    â€œThe rain has gone away . . . Clap Clap!
    and larks do sing on high.
    Sweet flowers open wide . . . Clap Clap!
    their petals to the sky!
    â€™Tis spring . . . Clap clap! ’Tis spring,
    let us rejoice and sing,
    the moon is queen the sun is king,
    so clap your paws and sing . . . Clap Clap!
    Â 
    There’s not a cloud in sight . . . Clap Clap!
    the leaves are bright and new.
    This day was made for all . . . Clap Clap!
    for me my friend and you!
    So sing . . . Clap Clap! . . . So sing,
    let summer follow spring,
    from golden morn to evening,
    we clap our paws and sing . . . Clap Clap!
    . . . Clap Clap!”
    Â 
    Although the clapping missed its beat once or twice, it was with joyous vigour. The little ones danced around, whooping and squeaking wildly, “Sing us’n’s a more!”
    Martha was coaxed into singing the lively air again. She finished quite out of breath, amid yells for a third performance.
    Toran took charge, slapping his rudder loudly on the bankside. “Hold up there, ye rogues, pore Miz Martha’s tuckered out. Now lissen t’me. If ye promise t’be good, we’ll have lunch out in the orchard today, seein’ as ’tis sunny!”
    His suggestion was greeted with roars of approval. “Lunch inna h’orchard, ’ooppee!”
    Martha smiled happily. “Oh, what a splendid idea!”
    Little Shilly sped off toward the Abbey, calling to the other Dibbuns. “Come on, we ’elp Granmum Gurvel wiv lunch!”
    Toran watched them go. “I don’t think old Gurvel will thank me for lettin’ that lot invade the kitchens.”
    Martha settled the big volume more comfortably on her lap. “Bless their little hearts, they mean well.”
    Toran cast a glance at the haremaid’s book. “That’s a heavy ole thing t’be readin’, miss. Wot’s it all about?”
    Martha opened the book at a page marked by a silken ribbon. “I borrowed it from Sister Portula’s library. It’s a rare and ancient account of Loamhedge mice.”
    The ottercook looked thoughtful. “Loamhedge mice, eh? I’ve heard of them. Weren’t they the ones who helped t’build our Abbey? Aye, they were led by old Abbess, er, wotsername?”
    â€œGermaine.” The haremaid corrected him. “It was she and Martin the Warrior who helped to build and design Redwall. Germaine and her followers once lived at the place they called Loamhedge. It was a