🍂An Autumn Tale of Mr. Mole

The air in the meadow had grown crisp, and the first gold leaves whispered down to the earth. Mr. Mole adjusted his spectacles and stepped out with his satchel, intent on gathering what he would need for the long nights ahead.

Along the hedge, he found the gnomes already at work, stacking twigs in tidy bundles. “We build for warmth,” one called cheerily, his red cap bobbing. Mr. Mole nodded and patted the small cloth pouch he always carried. Inside were his dice, a simple gift from a friend many seasons ago. Their edges, once sharp, had been smoothed by years of gentle rolls. They were never far from his paw, ready to tumble whenever stories called for chance and laughter.

At the market green, a kindly mouse stallkeeper pressed a silver-embossed journal into his paws. “For your thoughts,” she said with a wink. Mr. Mole’s heart warmed at the gift, and he tucked it carefully beside the dice in his satchel.

At the old oak stump, the Tomten appeared, quiet as dusk. He offered a handful of wool, soft as clouds. “For mending,” the Tomten said. Mr. Mole smiled, knowing the wool would become a craft to steady his paws and mind on winter evenings.

By the time he reached his burrow, his satchel was full: dice for gatherings, a journal for thoughts, and wool for busy work. He lit his lamp, set his things in a neat circle around him, and sighed with contentment.

“Some prepare with firewood,” Mr. Mole murmured, “but I prepare with stories. They, too, will keep us warm.”