Soft Blanket in the Fog

"Brrr," said the wind at the round door, and Olivia the rabbit ran outside to fetch her blanket.

It was her softest blanket, pale yellow, with a worn corner she liked to rub. She had hung it on the line to air. Now the fog had rolled in, thick and white, and fog in this valley keeps whatever is left in it until morning. Everybody knew that.

"But I need it tonight," said Olivia.

Her burrow had five tunnels, and she ran down all of them to find rope. In the end she found one short piece. She tied it round her middle and walked into the fog. Step, step, step. The rope went tight.

"Not enough rope," she said. She stretched her arm. Her paw found only white.

Then Moss the mole came by, pushing a wheelbarrow of turnips. "Evening," he said. "I'm only going home. Mind your feet."

"My blanket is in the fog," said Olivia.

"Ah," said Moss. "Mine's my hat." He tipped his head. It was bare. "See you at breakfast, hat." And off he went, humming, with a squeaky squee-squee from his wheel.

Olivia tried again. She hopped, and she plopped down on her tail. The fog did not care.

She sat very still and thought. Then she noticed something. The clothesline ran from her door into the white, and it was tied to the blanket. She did not need more rope. She already had a rope.

She stood up and wound the line round her paws. She pulled, a little at a time, hand over hand. The fog held on, then it let go with a soft pop, and the blanket slid out into her arms. It was damp and cool, and it smelled like clover.

Inside, she hung it by the warm stove. Slowly the cool went out of it. When it was warm, she wrapped herself up, rubbed the worn corner, and listened to the fog sighing against the door.