On a bright but brisk midwinter’s day, when the sun shone bravely yet offered little warmth, Precious Mrs. Piper found herself in a most unusual predicament: she had nothing at all to do. The young meeses were snug and busy, every charge accounted for, and the little house hummed with the rarest of luxuries—peaceful idleness.
Now Mrs. Piper had only just heard, at the most recent sermon given by the Right Reverend Topo Nibbleton, that idle paws are the Devil’s playthings. This thought would not do—not for a mouse of her good standing and sensible whiskers. And so, with a determined twitch of her tail, she resolved to bake a loaf of bread.
She scurried into her cozy kitchen, where the shelves smelled faintly of grain and warmth, and fetched her cherished crock of sourdough starter. The moment it met flour and water, it seemed to wake as if from a nap, bubbling and swelling with quiet enthusiasm, growing plump and lively under her careful paws.
Out came her trusty rolling pin, smooth with age and memory. With gentle thumps and rhythmic rolls, Mrs. Piper kneaded, coaxed, and persuaded the dough into docile submission. There was a magic in the motion—something old and comforting, passed down through generations of careful paws and flour-dusted aprons.
When the dough had rested and risen once more, round and proud, she nestled it into her favorite bowl—the one with the tiny chip on the rim and the best baking luck. Into the oven it went, where warmth and time worked their ancient spell.
Fifty minutes later, the oven door opened to reveal a loaf of sourdough bread, golden-crusted and fragrant, crackling softly as if whispering secrets of hearth and home. It was a loaf fit for royalty—or at the very least, for a most deserving mouse.
And that is our Precious Mrs. Piper: ever industrious, ever capable, a homemaker of rare talent and quiet magic.
Oh—and the bread?
Why, it was so good it made one’s toes curl with delight.
