Biscuit’s Muddy Map

“Follow my prints!” called Biscuit, pressing one muddy hoof into the yard.

His hoof made a round, squishy mark. Biscuit took another step. Squish. Then another. Squash.

“Look at that!” he said. “A trail made just for playing.”

Biscuit was a small pink piglet who loved the muddy farmyard beside the henhouse and pigpen. A puddle waited near the old apple tree, wide enough for a good splash and shallow enough for little hooves.

Hazel, a young hen, stood by the henhouse door, pecking at a crumb.

“Hazel!” Biscuit called. “Come follow my prints to the puddle!”

Hazel looked down. Biscuit’s marks crossed the yard in a straight line. They went right toward her henhouse.

“Are those prints leading into my house?” she asked.

“No,” said Biscuit. “They’re leading to—”

But a little gust rustled the straw beside the door, and Hazel hurried inside.

Biscuit blinked. “Maybe she didn’t hear the puddle part.”

He trotted to the henhouse and tapped the wall with his nose.

“Hazel? There’s a puddle!”

“I’m busy in here,” Hazel called. “I’m checking my nest.”

Biscuit looked at the ground. His hoofprints were plain as buttons in the mud. He followed them from the pigpen, past the water tub, and toward the henhouse door.

“Well,” he murmured, “that is where they go.”

He tried stepping backward. His prints still pointed toward the henhouse. He tried turning around. The marks stayed put.

Biscuit sat down with a plop. A little mud dot landed on his snout.

“Perhaps my trail looks like a very muddy invitation to visit Hazel’s house,” he said.

From inside came a tiny cluck.

Biscuit glanced toward the puddle. A duckweed leaf bobbed at the edge. The water looked ready for a splash, but playing alone was not quite as fun.

“I’ll think of a better way,” he said.

He stood, shook one ear, and studied the open stretch of yard. Then his eyes settled on the soft mud beside the pigpen. Biscuit smiled. “A new trail can tell a new story.”

Biscuit trotted back to the pigpen, careful not to step on his first trail. His little hooves pressed fresh marks into the mud.

“Now,” he said, “this trail needs a curve.”

He walked in a wide loop around the water tub. Then he curved away from the henhouse, past a patch of clover, and toward the puddle beneath the apple tree.

Squish, squash, squish.

At the puddle, Biscuit turned and looked back. The prints made a clear, wiggly path. They did not point to the henhouse at all.

“Much better,” he said. “This one says, ‘Puddle this way!’”

He waited beside the water. He did not call again. He let the new trail do the talking.

The henhouse door creaked open. Hazel peeked out.

“I’m just looking,” she said. “I’m not following any strange muddy marks into my house.”

Biscuit chuckled. “You don’t have to. This trail curves all the way to the puddle.”

Hazel stepped outside and studied the marks. She followed them with her eyes: around the tub, past the clover, then straight to Biscuit.

“Oh!” she clucked. “These prints are going the other way.”

“They are,” Biscuit said. “I noticed my first trail really did point to your door. I see why you thought it was for visiting.”

Hazel fluffed her feathers. “I thought you were bringing the whole pigpen to my nest.”

“Just me,” said Biscuit. “And maybe a little mud.”

Hazel followed the curving trail. At the puddle, she hopped onto a flat stone at the edge.

“What’s the game?” she asked.

“Puddle boats!” Biscuit nudged a small leaf onto the water. Hazel tapped it with her beak. The leaf sailed in a slow circle.

“Now watch my splash,” said Biscuit.

He stamped one hoof. Plip! A little wave nudged the leaf toward Hazel’s stone.

Hazel gave the water a quick hop. Plip-plop! The leaf spun around again.

“Your turn,” Biscuit said.

Hazel flapped once and landed beside him. Together they sent tiny ripples across the puddle, making the leaf bob like a boat on a bumpy pond.

“Captain Hazel, the leaf is heading for shore!” Biscuit announced.

“Then we must give it one more wave,” Hazel replied.

Biscuit tapped the puddle with his hoof. Hazel pecked the water beside the leaf. The little boat rocked, circled once, and floated back between them.

“Safe at the dock,” said Biscuit.

“Excellent sailing,” said Hazel. “Though your boat is made of leaf.”

“And your dock is made of stone.”

They both laughed. Biscuit’s laugh sounded like a tiny snort. Hazel’s sounded like three quick clucks.

They played until the ripples grew smaller. Biscuit made one last careful splash, not too big, and Hazel watched the leaf settle near the puddle’s edge.

“Your new trail was easy to follow,” she said.

“Your idea helped me notice why the first one was confusing,” Biscuit replied. “Next time, I’ll make my prints say where I’m going.”

Hazel looked at his muddy snout. “And perhaps wipe off your nose before you make a map.”

Biscuit rubbed his snout with one hoof. A brown smudge appeared on his cheek.

“Better?” he asked.

“Now you have a map on your face,” Hazel said.

Biscuit tried to see his cheek by looking down at the puddle. The water showed him a wobbly pink piglet with a very serious muddy mustache.

“I look like the mayor of the pigpen,” he said.

“Mayor Biscuit, may I walk back with you?” Hazel asked.

“Of course. We can take the curvy way.”

They went side by side, Hazel stepping between the deep hoofprints and Biscuit choosing the drier patches. Their marks curled past the clover and around the water tub. At the henhouse, Hazel gave the door a friendly tap with her wing. Biscuit turned toward the pigpen.

The puddle grew still again beneath the apple tree. The evening settled over the farmyard, and the birds tucked themselves into their warm nests. Biscuit and Hazel headed off together, leaving their squiggly prints behind in the mud. Soon, with full hearts and sleepy eyes, they settled into their own cozy homes for the night.