Free Loamhedge by Brian Jacques

his young chum so downcast. He chivvied her, hoping to lighten Martha’s mood.
    â€œCheer up, beauty. If’n ye keep lookin’ like that, it’ll teem down rain tomorrow. Wot’s the matter, my mushroom ’n’barley soup too cold? Has the bread gone stale, the cheese too hard, not enough plums in the pudden? Speak up, droopy ears, does that strawberry fizz cordial taste musty?”
    The haremaid managed a wan smile. “No, Toran, it’s not that, the supper is delicious. It’s just that . . . oh, I don’t know.”
    Toran collared Horty, just as he was reaching for another helping of plum pudding. “Hear that, young starvation face?Yore sister doesn’t know wot’s wrong with her. Sing her a song an’ liven her up, or y’don’t get any more plum pud!”
    Horty had done this once or twice before, when Martha was a bit down. That, and Toran’s threat to cut off his plum pudding supply, galvanised the greedy young hare into action. He let rip with a special ditty he saved for such occasions.
    Â 
    â€œWhat a gloomy little mug, wot wot,
    come on, let’s see you smile.
    With a scowl like that you’d frighten
    every beast within a mile.
    So chortle hahaheeheehoho!
    and brighten up for me,
    or I’ll send you to that Sister
    from the Infirmary.
    Â 
    She’ll say ‘Wot have we here, wot wot?
    A face like a flattened frog?
    This calls for a bucket o’ physick, aye,
    now that should do the job!
    Will somebeast grab her nose,
    so she can’t hold her breath,
    then I’ll be able to grab a ladle,
    an’ physick the child to death!
    I’ll not have it said of me, I couldn’t do my job,
    an’ send a young ’un to her grave,
    with a grin upon her gob!’
    Â 
    So chortle hohohahahee,
    an’ smile an’ giggle a lot,
    you can’t sit there all evenin’
    with a face like a rusty pot. Wot wot!”
    Â 
    Martha was chuckling when she spied Sister Setiva, the Infirmary Keeper, making a beeline for her brother.
    Setiva had a stern manner, and a marked northern accent, coupled with a dislike for impudence. “Ach, ye flop-eared wretch, ah’ll physick ye tae death if’n ah lay paws on ye!”
    Horty hid behind Toran. “I say, sah, ’twas only a blinkin’ joke, y’know. Don’t let that old poisoner get me!”
    Martha wiped tears of merriment from her eyes as the Abbot leaned across to her and asked, “Better now, miss?”
    She nodded. “Yes, thank you, Father. Oh, that Horty!”
    Sister Portula gave the Abbot a sidelong glance. “It’s all very well making plans to continue our studies out on the steps tomorrow, but look at the ruckus today. They were crowded around the gatehouse to see what we were doing inside. I think we’d best get ready to have lots of company tomorrow, Father—unless you can think of another way to keep our creatures distracted.”
    Abbot Carrul touched a paw to the side of his nose. “I’ve already thought of that, Sister. Do you not know what day it is tomorrow?”
    Portula shrugged. “A day like any other. Sunny, I hope.”
    Abbot Carrul stood up and murmured to her as he banged a ladle upon the tabletop to gain order. “Tomorrow is the first day of summer.”
    He raised his voice. “Your attention please, my friends!”
    A respectful silence fell upon the boisterous Redwallers. Everybeast was eager to hear what their Abbot had to say.
    â€œIt is my wish that, as tomorrow is the first day of Summer Season, a sports day and a feast shall be held within the grounds of our Abbey. My good friend Foremole Dwurl will be in charge of the proceedings. I trust you will cooperate with him. Foremole Dwurl!”
    Redwall’s mole leader, a kindly old fellow, bowed low to the Abbot. Amid the raucous cheering and shouting, he climbed upon the table and stamped his footpaws to gain