There was a river that moved slow and q…

Read-aloud note

Read slowly, soften your voice near the end, and leave a small pause before the final goodnight line.

Story

There was a river that moved slow and quiet through the trees. A boy named Pip sat beside it, watching the small morning fire.

His hair stuck up in wild, knotty clumps. He watched the little flame flicker. He loved the fire very much.

His mama blew gently into the soft grey ash. Pffff. A tiny ember glowed red. She fed it a bit of dry grass. Then a thin twig. Then a small curl of bark. The flame grew tall and bright. It wiggled like it was happy.

Pip clapped his hands. "Again!" he whispered.

Mama smiled and touched her finger to her lips. Shhh. The others were still sleeping.

Nearby, a tall old man sat very still. He had kind, crinkly eyes and hands that were big and knobbly like tree roots. He looked toward the river.

Three deer stepped out of the mist. Tip-tap, tip-tap on the muddy bank. Their ears turned this way and that. One bent down and drank. Sip, sip, sip.

Pip watched with huge round eyes. He did not move. The deer did not move. Even the river seemed to hold its breath.

Then the deer tipped their heads up, flicked their white tails, and bounded back into the trees. Thump, thump, thump — gone!

Pip let out a big breath. Whoooosh.

Later, Mama walked to the river to fill a big skin bag with water. Pip followed, tip-tap, tip-tap through the wet grass.

At the muddy bank, Mama knelt down. Pip knelt down too.

"Look," said Mama.

In the mud was a print. It was wide and round with four fat toe-marks.

Pip stared at it. It was enormous. Much bigger than Mama's hand. Much bigger than both of Pip's hands put together.

"Who made that?" Pip whispered.

Mama shrugged. She pressed one finger slowly into the soft mud beside it — squish — and tilted her head. She did not know. Pip touched it too. The mud was cool and squashy. Squish.

All day, Pip wondered. He dug roots with a pointy stick, his tongue poking out with effort. He watched the old man chip sparks off a flint stone. Crack! A little spark flew up like a tiny star. But every few minutes, Pip looked back at the river.

Who had the big round feet?

That evening, the whole group sat together around the fire. The flames were fat and golden. Stars came out one by one above the trees.

The old man stood up.

He stretched his arms wide. He bent his knees. He walked in a big, slow, stomping circle. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. He puffed out his cheeks. He wiggled his fingers like a big fluffy tail. He made a low, rumbly snore. Hrrrmmmm. Hrrrmmmm.

The children stared.

Then the old man pointed at the river. He pointed at the mud. He pointed at his own big, wide foot. He pressed it down slowly — squish — and spread his toes.

Pip looked at the man's foot. He looked at the mud. He looked at the man's foot again.

Oh.

OH.

It was the old man's footprint! He had walked to the river in the night for a drink, just like the deer!

Pip burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he fell sideways. All the others laughed too. Even the old man laughed, his big shoulders shaking up and down.

"Hrrrmmmm!" said Pip, puffing out his own cheeks.

Everyone laughed again.

The fire crackled. The stars grew bright and thick overhead, like spilled sand. Far away, an owl called softly. Whoo. Whoo.

Pip leaned against Mama's warm shoulder. He closed his eyes. He felt the fire's glow on his face, orange and cozy.

He whispered the sound for deer. Then the sound for river. Then the sound for big — knobbly — funny — old-man feet.

Then he was asleep.

Scenes

By the Quiet River

There was a river that moved slow and quiet through the trees. A little boy named Pip sat beside the morning fire, watching the small flame wiggle and dance.

Mama Wakes the Fire

Mama blew gently into the soft grey ash. Pffff. A tiny ember glowed red. She fed it grass, then a twig, then a curl of bark, and the flame grew tall and happy.

Three Deer in the Mist

Three deer stepped out of the mist. Tip-tap, tip-tap on the muddy bank. One bent down and drank. Even the river seemed to hold its breath.

A Big Round Print

At the muddy bank, Mama knelt down. Pip knelt down too. In the mud was a print — wide and round with four fat toe-marks. 'Who made that?' Pip whispered.

Wondering All Day

All day, Pip wondered. He dug roots with a pointy stick, tongue poking out. He watched the old man chip sparks off a flint. Crack! A little spark flew up like a tiny star.

The Stomping Dance

That evening, around the fat golden fire, the old man stood up. He stretched, bent his knees, and walked a big slow stomping circle. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Hrrrmmmm.

Oh! It Was Him!

The old man pressed his big wide foot slowly into the dust — squish — and spread his toes. Pip looked at the foot, then the print, then the foot. Oh. OH! He laughed so hard he fell sideways.

Stars Like Spilled Sand

The fire crackled. The stars grew bright and thick overhead, like spilled sand. Pip leaned against Mama's warm shoulder, whispered the sound for deer, for river, for big funny old-man feet — and then he was asleep.