Free How to Save Your Tail by Mary Hanson Page A

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 andnever wander off it even an inch—for that 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