Poppy and the Humming Hive

"Hum-hum, hummm," went the beehive in the garden, and Poppy hopped out of bed to hear it better.

Poppy was five, and she did not like the dark. But tonight was the coldest night of the year, and on the coldest night the bees always hummed a lullaby. Everybody knew that. Poppy wanted to sit on the window seat with her blanket and listen, close to the glass.

Then the lamp went pop! The room turned as black as the inside of a boot.

Poppy stood very still. "Hum-hum, hummm," sang the hive, far away. She shuffled forward with her arms out. Her toes found the window seat, and something soft and warm on top of it.

"Mrrow!"

It was Biscuit, the cat. He liked the window seat because a warm pipe ran underneath it, and he had got there first.

"Biscuit, please move," Poppy whispered.

Biscuit did not move. He yawned a very big yawn.

Poppy found her torch in the drawer and pressed the button. Click. Nothing. The batteries were flat. She pressed it again. Click. Still nothing.

She felt like crying a little. Then she heard something else, right beside her. Brrrrr, brrrrr. It was Biscuit, purring like a tiny engine.

Poppy stopped. She listened. The purr was low and the hive was high, and together they made one song.

Maybe she did not need the seat. She sat down on the floor, right beside it. The floor was warm there too, because of the pipe. She leaned her back against the wood and pulled her blanket round her knees.

"Hum-hum, hummm," went the hive.

"Brrrr, brrrr," went Biscuit.

"Hum-hum, hummm," went Poppy, very quietly.

The dark was still there, but it was full of humming now. Outside, frost made the window silver, and Biscuit's tail slid down and rested on her shoulder, warm and heavy, while the song went on and on.