How to Save Your Tail Read online

  Copyright © 2007 by Mary Hanson

  Illustrations copyright © 2007 by John Hendrix

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Schwartz & Wade Books, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Schwartz & Wade Books and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  www.randomhouse.com/kids

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools,

  visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hanson, Mary Elizabeth. How to save your tail: if you are a rat nabbed by cats who really like stories about magic spoons, wolves with snout-warts, big, hairy chimney trolls … and cookies too/Mary Hanson; illustrated by John Hendrix.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When he is captured by two of the queen’s cats, Bob the rat prolongs his life by sharing fresh-baked cookies and stories of his ancestors, whose escapades are remarkably similar to those of well-known fairy tale heroes.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-55690-5

  [1. Storytelling—Fiction. 2. Rats—Fiction. 3. Cats—Fiction. 4. Characters in literature—Fiction. 5. Fairy tales.] I. Hendrix, John, ill. II. Title.

  PZ8.H1968How 2007

  [Fic]

  2006003833

  v3.1

  For Bob and Stephanie

  —M.H.

  To Andrea and Jack

  —J.H.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Once Upon a Time

  Sherman and the Beanstalk

  Cookie Break

  The Three Rats

  Cookie Break

  The Chimney Troll

  Cookie Break

  The Wood Fairy

  Cookie Break

  Bob’s Slipper

  Happily Ever After

  About the Author

  About the Illustrator

  Once Upon a Time

  Once upon a time, in a grand castle, there lived a rat named Bob, who was fond of baking and wild about reading.

  Now, baking can be dangerous for a rat. Paws get burned and tails get caught in eggbeaters all the time.

  But it was his love of books that almost killed Bob. The trouble tiptoed up on him one afternoon, while his cookies were browning in the oven. As Bob sunned himself on the kitchen porch, he watched a bee flit about the garden, from rose to rose and lily to lily, landing at last on the garden bench—right next to a book.

  The rat sat up, tail twitching and whiskers whisking. Was it a new book? Or was it one of his favorites that he had read a hundred times? Either way, Bob was happier than a pig in a puddle. He had to have it.

  Quick as a wink, he leapt from the porch to the path. He was so anxious to devour the words that he never saw the Queen’s cats in the rosebushes, waiting to devour him.

  VOOOMP! Something had grabbed him—something with sharp claws and bad breath. Bob smelled a cat. It was all over but the chewing.

  He opened one eye and saw the orange stripes and treacherous teeth of … Brutus.

  Then Muffin pounced into view. She was huge, fluffy, and white as bones, except for her chin, which was stained with the blood of her last meal—a mouse, perhaps. Or a small bear.

  “Head or tail?” asked Brutus.

  “Head,” said Muffin. “I had the tail last time.”

  “Okay. Grab on. When I count three, pull!”

  Muffin grabbed. Bob squirmed. Brutus, just before counting, sniffed.

  “Hey!” he said. “What’s that smell?”

  “Coofies?” guessed Muffin, talking with her mouth full.

  “Butter cookies,” said the rat. He tried to sound as casual as possible, in spite of his delicate position.

  “Where?” asked Brutus.

  “In the oven,” squeaked the rat. “I’m testing a new recipe: double butter with cream cheese filling and a sinful blend of spice, mint chips, and sugar.”

  The cats drooled.

  “I’d hate for them to burn,” added Bob.

  “Me too,” said Muffin, dropping the rat with a thunk.

  “Okay, Mack,” said Brutus, letting go of Bob’s tail. “Get them out. But don’t try anything funny.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bob. “But—but—”

  “But what?”

  “My name’s not Mack, sir.”

  “It is now,” said Brutus. “Go!”

  So Bob—Mack to the cats—wobbled to his feet, shook off the cat slobber, and scurried into the kitchen. The cats tailed him.

  The kitchen was hot. The cats were hungry. And Bob—aka Mack—was quick.

  He poured two saucers of milk and served the cookies, warm from the oven, on the Queen’s finest china.

  He held his breath as the cats tasted.

  “Yum,” said Muffin.

  “Not bad,” said Brutus.

  “Do you really think so?” asked Bob. “My great-great-grandfather’s were better—before he lost his spoon.”

  “His spoon?” asked Brutus.

  “His magic spoon,” said Bob. “But that’s another story.”

  “Do tell, Mack!” said Muffin.

  “No way,” said Brutus. “It’s time for the main course.” He snatched the rat up by the scruff of his neck and dipped him in milk.

  “Not yet, Brutus!” cried Muffin. “I want to hear the story!”

  Brutus looked at Muffin. “Well, okay,” he said. “But after the story we eat him.”

  Brutus dropped Bob, without ceremony, on an empty plate.

  Then Bob, with great ceremony, brushed himself off, assumed his best storytelling posture, and began to tell about the day his great-great-grandfather Sherman climbed the beanstalk.

  Sherman and the Beanstalk

  In the days when a fellow needed a quick mind, a strong will, and a keen sense of adventure just to survive, there lived an extraordinary rat—my great-great-grandpa Sherman Rattus Norvegicus. Sherman (for short) had all those qualities plus a sharp nose and fast feet. And he did pretty well, thank you. Why, in just one week, he escaped an evil Queen who tested bad apples on good rats; dodged three bears chasing a small blond girl; and sidestepped twelve dancing Princesses who nearly trampled him to death practicing the bunny hop. Finally, he found safety in a run-down cottage with a widow and her son, Jack.

  Jack was harmless enough, but let’s face it—he did not possess a quick mind, a strong will, or any sense of adventure whatsoever. In fact, Jack never thought to wake up, get dressed, or eat breakfast until his mother suggested it.

  Once, while lurking below the cottage floor, Sherman heard the widow talking to her son.

  “Now, listen, Jack. The cupboards are bare and we’re out of grocery money. Our clothes have holes and we’re out of mending thread. We have a rat—I think—and we’re out of poison. There is only one thing to do.”

  “Eat the rat?”

  Sherman shivered.

  “No, you numbnoggin,” scolded the widow. “You must take the cow to market and sell her. Oh, and on the way, stop at your auntie Lou’s house and give her this bread. She’s feeling poorly.”

  “But I thought we were out of food,” said Jack.

  “Don’t worry,” said the widow. “It’s moldy.”

  Moldy bread? Sherman’s ears pricked up. Green, fuzzy, moldy bread was his absolute favorite—except for cookies.

  Sherman scrabbled up through a hole in the floor and into the bread basket. Jack did not notice, and neither did his mother. They were both busy fussing with Jack’s little red cape.

  “Now, remember, Jack, stay on the path and never wander off it even an inch—for th
at way lie bad, scary, awful, terrible, nasty things.”

  Jack promised to obey. He took up the basket, tied a rope to the cow, and started on his way.

  Sherman bounced along in the basket, nibbling at the moldy loaf, and thanked his lucky fleas for the chance of adventure, which he loved more than anything—except cookies.

  They had not gone far when Jack, steadfast on the path, bumped into something. He fell down, dropped his basket, and lost his cow.

  Sherman tumbled out into the grass, looked up, and blinked. Above him towered an enormous, stupendous, humongous, very tall beanstalk. His nose quivered. Coming from somewhere, Sherman was not sure where, was the smell of … cookies. Fresh, warm, just-out-of-the-oven cookies. Hot chocolaty-chips! thought Sherman.

  “Gosh,” said Jack, for he too noticed the beanstalk. Then he gathered up the bread and basket and started back on his path, looking for his cow.

  Sherman was stunned.

  “Jack!” he cried. “How can you …? Why don’t we …? Don’t you want to …?”

  But Jack trudged on, calling his cow.

  Sherman, on the other paw, jumped onto the closest beanstalk leaf and started climbing. In the first place, as you will remember, there was nothing he loved more than adventure—except cookies, of course. In the second place, as you have probably guessed, he was now 100 percent sure the cookie smell was coming from the top of the beanstalk.

  It was a long climb, but there were yummy bean blossoms along the way, not to mention a spectacular view. At last, he reached the tip-top of the beanstalk, stepped onto an oh-so-cushy cloud, and saw an immense castle. The smell of cookies was everywhere.

  An oven timer pinged.

  Sherman made a beeline for the castle and climbed in through a window. He pointed his nose in the direction of the cookie smell and dashed toward it, down a long, shiny hall, past the parlor, and into the kitchen.

  There they were, in giant jars, on ponderous plates, and cooling on colossal cookie racks—hundreds and hundreds of monstrous, magnificent, mouthwatering cookies. Sherman looked everywhere, beneath chairs, atop counters, inside cupboards, and behind the door. He saw no one. Not a single soul. So he dove into the nearest platter to fill his belly with chocolate chips and crispy crumbs.

  He was still stuffing his cheeks when the cook came in with a wild look on her round, red face.

  “There you are!” she bellowed.

  The jig is up, thought Sherman. I’m rat-meat. He squeezed behind the breadbox.

  But the cook wasn’t talking to Sherman. She reached, instead, for a spoon.

  “Spoon!” she said, placing it in a bowl,

  “Stir and swirl

  Sugar and butter,

  Beat and blend

  Eggs and spice.

  Chocolate chips?

  Measure them twice.

  Cookies for Master,

  Faster and faster!”

  Then, in a blink of an eye and a twitch of a tail, the spoon measured, mixed, and baked a batch of giant cookies out of nothing at all.

  Sherman went dizzy with wonder.

  The smell of a new batch brought something dreadful to the kitchen—something no rat should ever see, not even in his worst nightmare. The thing stood on its hulking hind legs in the middle of the room. It was covered with coarse black fur, and a jagged scar marked its cheek from one ragged ear to its grizzled snout-whiskers. A bad overbite revealed sharp, greenish, unbrushed fangs, and it was as big as a whale. It was a giant, yes. But worse, it was a cat … in boots.

  The frightful feline scooped up a pawful of cookies with his claws, shoved them into his mouth, and sniffed the air.

  “Fee, fi, fo, fum—

  I smell a rat.”

  Before Sherman could wiggle a whisker, the overgrown cat reached behind the breadbox and snatched him by the tail.

  “He’ll make a tasty tidbit, don’t you think, Cook?”

  “Ah, yes. We’ll skin him, roast him, and set him atop your parsnips with a sprig of parsley.”

  The giant drooled and dropped Sherman into the cook’s hands. Then he grabbed another dozen cookies and stomped out of the kitchen.

  The cook opened the pantry door and plunked Sherman into a roomful of darkness. The door slammed, and the rat was alone.

  Or so he thought.

  “G-g-greetings.”

  “Who’s there?” asked Sherman.

  “Just me, Justine.”

  “Well, Justine,” said Sherman, “nice to meet you. Name’s Sherman. Is he going to eat you too?”

  “I th-th-think so,” sniffled Justine. Then she grunted. “Oh dear. Not an-n-n-nother one!”

  Suddenly, something shone in the darkness. Something golden.

  Sherman blinked. It looked like an egg. He scrabbled over to it.

  “Wow!”

  “P-please don’t tell anyone,” begged Justine.

  Sherman looked at her in the glow of the egg. Justine was a goose.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “It’s not a p-p-proper egg, is it?”

  “But it’s made of gold!” said Sherman.

  “Solid gold!” wailed Justine. “Nothing ever hatches! And they’re heavy. I can’t do a thing with them.”

  “Them?”

  Justine waddled over to a heap of empty flour sacks. She took a corner of one in her bill and waddled backward. The sack slid off something glimmery. She continued to pull sack after sack away, uncovering a huge pile of golden eggs. Then she wagged her head and gaggled forth a flood of tears.

  “I’m so emb-b-barrassed!”

  “Don’t worry,” soothed Sherman. “I won’t tell a soul.”

  Too late. The door creaked open and the cook came in with her axe.

  Sherman and Justine froze.

  So did the cook—dropping the axe on her own toe. And though her toe was chopped off and her best shoes were ruined, she stood stone still, dazzled silly by the golden eggs.

  “Go!” said Sherman, and they did. With skittering feet and flapping wings, the rat and the goose gave the cook the slip.

  But just at the kitchen door, Sherman remembered something.

  “Stop!” he shouted, and they did. Then Sherman climbed the table leg and came back down with the spoon in his mouth. It was three times bigger than Sherman, but a rat can do amazing things for the right reason.

  Off they raced again—out of the kitchen, past the parlor, and down the hall.

  BAM! BAM! BAM! The cat giant pounded out of the parlor door. He snorted and roared and hissed and before you could say “Fee fi,” he was at Sherman’s heels.

  “Lay an egg!” said Sherman, through clenched teeth and magic spoon, and Justine did.

  The egg dropped to the ground, rolled under the giant’s massive boots, and sent him crashing to the floor.

  Justine flew low, and Sherman jumped on her back. They flapped out the window and made a gooseline for the beanstalk. Sherman showed Justine the way down. They could just begin to see the path below when they heard the giant smash through the castle door.

  Sherman dropped the spoon and cried, “Jump!” And they did.

  With the rat hanging tight to Justine’s neck, they flapped and plummeted and landed on a haystack.

  When Sherman looked up, he could see the mammoth cat climbing down through the clouds.

  Sherman thought fast. Then he chewed—right through the beanstalk.

  BOOM! The giant fell to the earth, dead as dirt.

  At that moment, Jack trudged out of the woods, head down, eyes on the path.

  “Why so sad?” asked Sherman.

  “Lost my cow,” said Jack.

  “Here,” said Sherman. “Have a goose.” He winked at Justine and whispered, “Don’t worry. Jack won’t mind about the eggs.”

  Then Sherman scurried off to find his magic spoon.

  And the cow.

  After all, what good are cookies without milk?

  Cookie Break

  “Did that goose really lay golde
n eggs?” asked Muffin.

  “Sure,” said Bob. “And her sister, Stephanie, laid colored eggs that actually hatched. Her goslings came in all the colors of the rainbow. In fact, one of her daughters, Blue Sue, lives down by the Royal Pond. She’s a good friend of mine.”

  “Who cares? Story over,” said Brutus.

  “Did Sherman find the spoon?” asked Muffin.

  “Too many questions,” said Brutus. “Time to eat the rat.”

  Bob squiggled backward off the plate. He bumped into Brutus’s waiting claws and squiggled back on.

  “I want to know!” insisted Muffin.

  Brutus pouted and looked at Bob. “Well?”

  “He—he did find the spoon,” said Bob. “And—and the cow.”

  “Then what happened, Mack?” asked Muffin. “Did he get fat and juicy and taste like chocolate chips?”

  “Well, Grandpa Sherman was a t-tad portly, but I don’t know about the juicy part,” said Bob, a bit weak in the knees. “That’s beside the point. What happened next is that he went back to the beanstalk stump and found that the big puss had turned to dust and blown away, leaving nothing but his boots—which Sherman moved into. Now, if I’d been in those boots, I would have put comfy chairs in the toes and spent my days reading and baking cookies. But nooooooo. Sherman got married! Then he had so many children he didn’t know what to do. And one day, at his youngest daughter’s birthday party, some of her naughty friends chewed up the spoon.”

  “Oh no!” cried Muffin.

  “Oh yes,” said Bob. “After that, there was nothing to eat and all the children had to make their own way in the world—but that’s another story.”

  “Tell us!” said Muffin.

  Bob washed a paw and swallowed a little smile.

  “Hey!” Brutus glowered at Muffin.

  “Don’t you want to hear about Sherman’s children?” asked Muffin.

  “Only if he tells us where they live,” said Brutus with a flash of his fangs, “so we can eat them after we eat him.”

  “Sounds good,” said Muffin. She looked at Bob. “Let’s hear it, Mack.”