Free How to Save Your Tail by Mary Hanson Page B

breadbox.

    But the cook wasn’t talking to Sherman. She reached, instead, for a spoon.
    “Spoon!” she said, placing it in a bowl,
    “Stir and swirl
    Sugar and butter
,
    Beat and blend
    Eggs and spice
.
    Chocolate chips?
    Measure them twice
.
    Cookies for Master
,
    Faster and faster!”
    Then, in a blink of an eye and a twitch of a tail, the spoon measured, mixed, and baked a batch of giant cookies out of
nothing at all
.
    Sherman went dizzy with wonder.
    The smell of a new batch brought something dreadful to the kitchen—something no rat should ever see, not even in his worst nightmare. The thing stood on its hulking hind legs in the middle of the room. It was covered with coarse black fur, and a jagged scar marked its cheek from one ragged ear to its grizzled snout-whiskers. A bad overbite revealed sharp, greenish, unbrushed fangs, and it was as bigas a whale. It was a giant, yes. But worse, it was a cat … in boots.
    The frightful feline scooped up a pawful of cookies with his claws, shoved them into his mouth, and sniffed the air.
    “Fee, fi, fo, fum—
    I smell a rat.”
    Before Sherman could wiggle a whisker, the overgrown cat reached behind the breadbox and snatched him by the tail.
    “He’ll make a tasty tidbit, don’t you think, Cook?”
    “Ah, yes. We’ll skin him, roast him, and set him atop your parsnips with a sprig of parsley.”
    The giant drooled and dropped Sherman into the cook’s hands. Then he grabbed another dozen cookies and stomped out of the kitchen.
    The cook opened the pantry door and plunked Sherman into a roomful of darkness. The door slammed, and the rat was alone.
    Or so he thought.
    “G-g-greetings.”
    “Who’s there?” asked Sherman.
    “Just me, Justine.”
    “Well, Justine,” said Sherman, “nice to meet you. Name’s Sherman. Is he going to eat you too?”
    “I th-th-think so,” sniffled Justine. Then she grunted. “Oh dear. Not an-n-n-nother one!”
    Suddenly, something shone in the darkness. Something golden.
    Sherman blinked. It looked like an egg. He scrabbled over to it.
    “Wow!”
    “P-please don’t tell anyone,” begged Justine.
    Sherman looked at her in the glow of the egg. Justine was a goose.
    “Why not?” he asked.
    “It’s not a p-p-proper egg, is it?”
    “But it’s made of gold!” said Sherman.
    “Solid gold!” wailed Justine. “Nothing ever hatches! And they’re heavy. I can’t do a thing with them.”
    “Them?”
    Justine waddled over to a heap of empty flour sacks. She took a corner of one in her bill and waddled backward. The sack slid off something glimmery. She continued to pull sack after sack away, uncovering a huge pile of golden eggs. Then she wagged her head and gaggled forth a flood of tears.
    “I’m so emb-b-barrassed!”
    “Don’t worry,” soothed Sherman. “I won’t tell a soul.”
    Too late. The door creaked open and the cook came in with her axe.
    Sherman and Justine froze.
    So did the cook—dropping the axe on her own toe. And though her toe was chopped off and her best shoes were ruined, she stood stone still, dazzled silly by the golden eggs.
    “Go!”
said Sherman, and they did. With skittering feet and flapping wings, the rat and the goose gave the cook the slip.
    But just at the kitchen door, Sherman remembered something.
    “Stop!”
he shouted, and they did. Then Sherman climbed the table leg and came back down with the spoon in his mouth. It was three times bigger than Sherman, but a rat can do amazing things for the right reason.
    Off they raced again—out of the kitchen, past the parlor, and down the hall.
    BAM! BAM! BAM!
The cat giant pounded out of the parlor door. He snorted and roared and hissed and before you could say “Fee fi,” he was at Sherman’s heels.
    “Lay an egg!”
said Sherman, through clenched teeth and magic spoon, and Justine did.

    The egg dropped to the ground, rolled under the giant’s massive boots, and sent him crashing to the floor.
    Justine flew low, and Sherman