Bram and the Ploom by the Pond

“Ploom!” Bram’s ears popped up. “That was definitely not my tummy.”

His tummy made a small, polite grumble, as if it agreed.

Bram was a young woolly mammoth with shaggy brown fur, a curly tail, and two little tusks that pointed up like commas. He stood beside a prehistoric pond where reeds grew thick along the edge. The mud was so soft that his toes made round, squishy prints.

“Ploom!” came the sound again.

Bram turned toward the water. “I’m going to find out what made that.”

His friend Tansy, a small mammoth with a sandy-colored coat, looked up from a mouthful of pond grass. “I’ll come along. Maybe it’s a fish with hiccups.”

They tiptoed toward the reeds. Bram tried to tiptoe quietly, but each step went ka-squish, ka-squash.

“Ploom!”

“There!” Bram pointed to the left.

They hurried left. The reeds rustled around them. When Bram reached the water, the pond was still. A little bubble rose and popped.

“Was that it?” asked Tansy.

Bram leaned close. His trunk dipped into the pond with a plunk. He pulled it out and shook off the water. Tansy got a few drops on her nose.

“Ploom!” came the sound, now from the other side.

Bram spun around. His feet slid in the mud, and he sat down with a splat.

“Good landing,” said Tansy.

“Thank you,” said Bram, though he had not meant to land at all.

They made their way around the pond. Each time they thought they were close, the sound seemed to hop somewhere else. The reeds whispered and rattled, brushing Bram’s ears and Tansy’s cheeks.

“Maybe the pond is playing a joke,” Tansy said.

“Then I’ll ask it to tell me where the joke is,” Bram replied.

He called, “Hello, pond! Where are you hiding your ploom?”

The pond did not answer. But the reeds rustled again, and from somewhere near the water came a very clear—

“Ploom!”

Bram and Tansy both pointed. Their trunks crossed in the air and bonked together.

“Oof!” said Bram.

“Sorry,” said Tansy.

They hurried toward the sound, but the reeds swayed and rattled. A ploom came from the right. Then another came from the left.

“It’s moving faster than we are!” Bram cried.

They marched around the pond, peeking between the reeds. Bram lifted a clump with his trunk. Tansy looked beneath a broad leaf. They found a beetle, two feathers, and one very surprised snail—but no ploom-maker.

Bram stopped. His ears drooped a little. “I keep chasing the sound, but it keeps getting away.”

Tansy sat beside him in the squishy mud. “Maybe we should stop chasing and listen.”

Bram looked at the reeds. A breeze slipped over the pond. The tall stalks bent one way, then sprang back. Their dry leaves brushed together with a shhh-rattle, shhh-rattle.

Bram watched closely. When the reeds bent toward the water, one long stalk dipped its tip into the pond. When it sprang back, the tip lifted out.

“Wait,” Bram whispered. “Let’s see what happens when they move.”

They sat very still. The breeze passed. The reeds leaned over the pond.

Tap.

The long stalk touched the water.

Ploom!

Bram’s eyes widened. “The reed is doing it!”

The breeze came again. Tap. Ploom!

Tansy giggled. “A reed with a very good drumbeat.”

Bram carefully reached out with his trunk. He held the stalk aside so its tip no longer tapped the pond. The reeds gave one last rustle, then settled.

For a moment, the pond was quiet.

Then a small sound rose from the water.

“Plip… plip… plip.”

Bram and Tansy leaned toward the pond. Between two lily pads sat a round green frog, singing in a voice no bigger than a raindrop.

“Oh,” Bram whispered. “There was a song under the ploom all along.”

The frog sang another tiny plip, and Bram held the reed aside so they could hear.

“Plip… plip… plip,” sang the frog.

Bram kept the reed lifted with the tip of his trunk. Tansy sat close beside him, her toes tucked into the mud. Neither of them spoke. The frog’s little song was easy to miss when the reeds rattled, but now each note reached them clearly.

“Plip,” sang the frog.

“Plip,” Tansy whispered back.

The frog paused, as if it were thinking about her answer. Then it sang three notes in a row.

“Plip-plip-plip!”

Tansy smiled. “I think it likes my singing.”

Bram tried to answer too. He shaped his mouth into a round little “o” and made a sound that was more of a burp than a plip.

The frog stopped.

Bram froze. “Was that too loud?”

The frog blinked, then sang again. “Plip.”

“I’ll practice quietly,” Bram murmured.

The breeze brushed the reeds, but Bram kept the tapping stalk to one side. The other reeds swayed above them, making a hush-hush sound. The frog’s notes slipped between the hushes.

“Plip… hush… plip… hush…”

The pond seemed to be listening, too. A ripple traveled across the water and softened against the muddy edge. A sleepy-looking bug settled on a leaf. Tansy leaned her shoulder against Bram’s warm, woolly side.

“Do you still want to know what made the ploom?” she asked.

“I know now,” Bram said. “It was the reed tapping the water. And the frog was singing underneath.”

He lowered the stalk carefully onto the bank, where it could not tap the pond. Then he and Tansy listened without chasing anything at all.

The frog sang plips. The reeds whispered. The water made a quiet shhh against the shore. Bram’s ears rested against his shaggy head, and Tansy’s eyes grew heavy.

“Maybe the pond is getting sleepy,” Tansy murmured.

“Maybe it’s listening to the frog,” Bram said.

They stayed beside the pond while the little song grew slower: plip… plip… plip. Bram and Tansy listened together until even the pond seemed to settle into its bedtime hush.