The great Joseph Bell pealed out mellowly over the warm spring evening as an old mole grandmother made her way slowly over to the small cheery fire that glowed by the beechlog in the orchard. The infant mole was toasting a chestnut on a stick at the fire, and his friend the dormouse elder was dozing.

Taking the little mole by his paw, the grandmother whispered, “Come on, Burrem, et be yurr bedtoime long since, bring thoi chesknutter with ’ee.”

Paw in paw they strolled back toward the Abbey dormitories, the old one questioning her grandson.

“Wurr et a gudd story, Burrem?”

The infant trundled along, nodding. “Hoo urr, it serpintly wurr, tho’ oi thinks that ol’ dormouser be a gurt fibber, Granmurr.”

She stopped and wagged a heavy digging claw at him. “Gurr, maister Dumble b’aint no fibber, you ’pologize roight naow, young un!”

The infant mole smiled winningly at her. “Oi ’pologizes, Granmurr ’rula. You wurr in ’ee story so it must be ’onest true, burr aye!”

Old Arula patted his velvety head. “You’m forgived, young ripscullywag.”

They continued walking to the Abbey.

“Whoi does Maister Dumble allus sleep outside in ’ee orchard, Granmurr? Him’n doant go t’ bed in ’ee durmitory.”

“Oh he’m a-stayen out thurr every noight fer long seasons naow, Burrem, waitin’ on heaglyburds an’ falkies t’ come back. S’pose someday they will, hurr.”

Together they entered the Abbey, leaving the door open, as it always is to welcome any traveler to Redwall.

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