The kitten stood on a stump and squeaked. A yellow leaf sat on his head. All around him lay a wide, brown puddle. “River! The ground has turned into soup!” River looked up from a little wooden boat. “That’s a puddle, Pip.” “Then it’s very bad soup.”
Rain had filled a dip in the meadow. Beyond it rose the mountain’s rocky top. Red leaves clung to the low bushes. Pip had chased one across the grass. He had leaped right onto the stump. Now he wanted to leap back. But every way back looked wet.
River set the boat beside one boot. “Stay there. I’ll help you.” Pip was still a very small kitten. His ears seemed too big for him. So did his squeak. River wanted him back on the picnic rug. There was a warm patch of sun there.
The puddle was not deep at all. River stepped in to check. Water just covered the boots’ thick soles. “I could carry you,” River said. Pip tucked his paws beneath his chest. “I don’t like being picked up.” “All right. We’ll find another way.” Pip’s ears lifted a little.
River glanced at the boat on the grass. It was a wide, flat piece of wood. A twig stood in a lump of clay. A leaf made the sail. River had spent ages choosing that leaf. It was red, with one gold tip. “Would you like a boat ride?”
Pip leaned over the edge of the stump. The leaf on his head slipped off. Plop. He watched it float away. “That leaf didn’t even bring a towel.” River grinned and fetched the boat. “You can ride. I can pull.” “Will my paws stay dry?” “Let’s try it here first.”
River brought the boat beside the stump. One end rested against the rough bark. Pip stretched out a small white paw. He pressed the wood. The boat tipped. A little water washed over its edge. Pip pulled back at once. “No, thank you,” he said. “That floor has a wobble.”
River held the boat steady. Pip reached out once more. This time, he stopped before touching it. His tail curled tight around his feet. River drew the boat away. “You don’t have to ride.” Pip let out a small breath. “I would like a floor that stays put.”
River sat on the dry bank to think. The boat lay across both knees. Pip watched from his stump. A breeze turned the red leaf sail. The wood was wide enough for Pip. It was long enough, too. River looked at the gap beside the stump. Then back at the boat.
“You don’t need to float,” River said. “You need to walk.” River pulled the twig from the clay. Off came the fine red sail. “Are you taking your boat apart?” asked Pip. River rubbed the last clay lump away. “Yes. I’m making you a bridge.”
River stood the bare board on the grass. Then River lowered it across the narrow gap. One end rested on the low stump. The other reached well onto the bank. It made a gentle slope. River pushed each end in turn. Neither slipped. The board stayed firm.
Pip peered down at the wood. “No wobble?” River pressed it once more. “No wobble.” Pip put one paw on the bridge. He pressed, just as River had. Then he put down the other front paw. He paused with his back feet still on the stump.
River sat beside the dry end. “I’m right here.” Pip took one slow step. Then another. Halfway across, he stopped to stare down. A leaf slid beneath the bridge. “Someone should tell that leaf about boats.” Then Pip walked the last few steps. His paws landed on dry grass.
River reached out a hand. Pip rubbed his cheek against it. His tail stood straight up now. “Four dry paws,” he said. River looked them over. “And one dry tail.” Pip turned to check. “Good. I need that.” He gave it a proud little twitch.
They left the bridge across the puddle. Pip tested it once more, just one paw. Then he followed River to the picnic rug. River carried the twig and the red leaf. “Could you make another boat?” Pip asked. “Yes,” said River. “But this one can stay a bridge.”
Pip settled on the rug beside River. River laid the red sail on the grass. Across the puddle, the little bridge sat firm. Under it, the yellow leaf drifted past. Pip watched with his chin on River’s boot. His four dry paws were tucked in the sun.