The Little Fox Who Followed the Fireflies

In a burrow under an old oak tree lived a little fox named Pip, who was almost never ready for bed. “Just a little longer,” Pip would say. “There's still so much evening left.”

One night, as the sky turned the color of blackberries, a firefly floated past the burrow door and blinked. Then another. Then a whole gentle trail of them, glowing on and off, on and off.

“Where are you all going?” asked Pip. The fireflies didn't answer, but they seemed to want him to follow. So he padded out into the cool, soft grass.

The fireflies led Pip past the sleepy rabbits, tucked nose-to-tail in their warren. They led him past the owl, who blinked one slow, kind blink. They led him past the pond, where the moon lay resting on the water like a coin of light.

The further Pip walked, the sleepier he felt. His paws grew heavy. His tail dragged a soft line in the dew. “I think,” he yawned, “I'm ready to go home now.”

And that was the fireflies' secret all along. They looped around, glowing gently, and led Pip in a big slow circle right back to his own front door.

His mother was waiting, warm and soft. “There you are, my wanderer,” she said, and she curled around him like a blanket made of fur.

Pip watched the fireflies drift away over the trees, blinking goodnight. He didn't ask for a little longer. Not tonight.

He was already home. He was already warm. And he was, at last, already asleep.

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