Free Bluestar's Prophecy by Erin Hunter Page B

dip.
    Stonepelt finally halted. “Here we are.”
    Sparrowpelt weaved in front of them and lifted his chin. Ahead, a gigantic tree towered above the others, its crownstretching beyond the canopy that shielded the sky.
    The Great Sycamore .
    Its roots, some thick as branches, twisted through dense layers of leaves around its base and burrowed into the earth.
    Bluepaw’s pelt tingled. She could smell prey. Birds chattered in the branches above her head. Fallen leaves rustled at the base of the sycamore, stirred by wind or small creatures. Bluepaw longed to slide her paws deep into the great golden drifts.
    “The first lesson of hunting,” Stonepelt began, “is patience.”
    Sparrowpelt nodded. “The greatest hunter is the one who knows how to wait.”
    “Can’t we just sift through the leaves till we find something?” Bluepaw asked hopefully.
    Stonepelt shook his head. “You’ll scare everything back to its burrow.” He padded away toward a bush three fox-lengths from the base of the tree. It was still thick with leaves, and he disappeared behind it. Sparrowpelt followed, beckoning the apprentices with his tail.
    “Is there prey behind there?” Snowpaw asked, wide-eyed.
    “Not if they’ve got any sense,” Sparrowpelt meowed.
    Stonepelt was already crouching behind the bush, his belly flat to the earth, peering through the low branches toward the roots of the sycamore.
    “Get down,” he whispered.
    Bluepaw crouched next to him, with Snowpaw and Sparrowpelt beside her. She squinted through the bush, wonderingwhat she was supposed to be looking for.
    “Don’t move till you see your prey,” Stonepelt advised.
    “Will prey come out into the open?” Snowpaw asked.
    “Now that we’re downwind, some might,” Sparrowpelt told her. “Do you see the sycamore pods?” Bluepaw scanned the ground and noticed some little wing shapes among the leaves, like tiny moths littering the ground.
    “Where there are pods there are bugs,” Sparrowpelt meowed.
    “And where there are bugs there’s prey,” Stonepelt finished. The gray warrior stiffened and his ears pricked. Bluepaw followed his gaze. A small, furry shape was skittering along one of the roots.
    Mouse!
    The fur rippled along her spine, and she unsheathed her claws. “When do we pounce?” she hissed to Stonepelt.
    “Not ye—”
    Before he could finish, Snowpaw shot forward, rattling through the bush and throwing up leaves as she tore across the forest floor. She leaped for the mouse, but it had disappeared, and she sat down with a thud, her tail thrashing through the leaves, shoulders back and ears flattened in disgust.
    “Mouse dung!”
    She turned and stalked back to her Clanmates. Sparrowpelt was shaking his head as she appeared behind the bush. “I like your enthusiasm,” he meowed. “But your technique could use a little work.”
    There was a teasing lightness in his tone that madeBluepaw’s whiskers twitch and a purr of amusement rose in her throat.
    Snowpaw turned on her. “ You can shut up!”
    Bluepaw backed away, alarmed, then was relieved to see Snowpaw’s anger melt as soon as their gaze met.
    “Sorry,” Snowpaw apologized. “I was just upset.”
    “You were fast,” Bluepaw encouraged her.
    “I’m afraid speed doesn’t count when it comes to mice,” Sparrowpelt meowed. “They don’t stray far from their burrows, and they move quickly. This is why it’s important to master stalking. Skill is far more important than speed.”
    Stonepelt looked at Sparrowpelt. “Maybe we should save hunting for another day and practice stalking instead.”
    Sparrowpelt nodded, though Snowpaw sighed.
    But Bluepaw was eager to show her mentor the skills Patchpaw had already taught her. She dropped low to the ground, keeping her tail pressed against the leaves, and began to stalk forward.
    “Not bad,” Stonepelt meowed. “But lift your tail a little. You don’t want it dragging through the leaves. Lower your chin, too, and flatten your ears.