Pip and the Humming Hive

Pip wanted to count every star in the sky, and she wanted to do it before bedtime.

Pip was a small grey kitten with one white sock. She lived on a treetop platform strung between three sturdy branches. Every evening the stars came out over her head, and every evening she thought, "Tonight I will count them all."

She sat very still and lifted one paw.

"One," said Pip. "Two. Three. Four..."

Then a moth flew past her nose. Pip pounced. The moth zipped away, and she lost her place.

"Oh, whiskers," she said. "Start again."

She sat up straight. "One. Two. Three. Four. Five..."

But the stars would not stay still. They twinkled on and off like tiny lamps. When she looked at one, another winked out. When she counted that one, the first popped back.

"Seven? Or is it the same seven?" said Pip.

Near the platform hung the old beehive. It was a cold night, and the hive was humming its lullaby, as it always did when the air turned frosty. Nobody in the treetops thought that was strange. It was just what hives did here. Hmmm-mm, hmmm-mm, hmmm-mm.

A bee crawled out and sat on the edge of the hive. She had come to check the door, not to help a kitten.

"You look cross," said the bee.

"I cannot count the stars," said Pip. "They won't hold still."

"Not my business," said the bee, and she crawled back in.

Pip flicked her tail. Then she tried something different. She did not count the stars in the sky. She picked one little patch, just above the highest branch, and put her white sock up to frame it.

"One," she said. "Two. Three."

The stars in her sock-sized patch twinkled, but there were only three. They stayed three.

"Ha!" said Pip. "A small piece at a time."

She moved her paw to the next patch. Hmmm-mm, hummed the hive. Pip counted along with the hum. Her eyes grew heavy. Her paw grew heavy.

"Four... five... six..."

She curled up, her chin on her white sock, and the lullaby hummed on and on.