Poppy and the Stomp Hill

Poppy was stomping up the hill with a red face and a red bucket. She stomped so hard her trainers went thump, thump, thump.

She was building a sandcastle at the top of the hill, where the sand was soft and the whole town could see. She wanted one tall tower, taller than her knees. It was the best idea she had ever had.

But Tom, the neighbour's dog, had got there first. He had dug a deep hole right where the tower should go. Sand was flying everywhere.

"Stop it!" said Poppy. "I'm angry!"

Tom did not stop. He was looking for his bone, and a dog looking for a bone cannot hear very well.

Poppy's tummy felt hot, like a kettle. She scrunched her fists. She said it again, louder. "I'm angry, I'm angry, I'm ANGRY!"

Then she stamped her foot. The whole hill gave a low, humming sound, like a big cat purring. Hills in that town always hummed when somebody stamped. Nobody thought it was strange.

Poppy stopped. She stamped again. Hmmmm.

She stamped once more, harder. HMMMMM. Tom lifted his head and wagged his tail.

Poppy giggled, just a little. Her fists came open. She took a big breath in through her nose, and let it out slowly, like blowing on soup.

The hot feeling in her tummy got smaller. It did not go away at once. It went down the way a kettle does when you lift it off the stove.

"Tom," she said, in a quieter voice, "I'm still a bit angry. But I need that spot."

Tom trotted over and sat down. He was sitting on a lump. Poppy dug under him and out came a muddy bone.

Tom took it and flopped down, chewing happily.

Poppy filled her bucket and patted the sand. One scoop, then two. The tower went up, tall as her knees, then a bit taller.

Under her feet the hill hummed softly. Tom crunched on his bone. And Poppy sat beside her tower, her cheeks cooling in the wind, listening.