What was ol Slimpsy wonderin? Well, scrape the rind from the moon if he werent wonderin where to park his stitch-gabbled ass that night, for his big yella gourd house was all swamped over with water and gourd fibers from the last rainfall.

Now, as you might surmise from the fact that ol Slimpsy usually parked his ass in a hollowed-out gourd, he werent no bigger than a squirrels tin lunch pail. But dont tell him I told you that! For Slimpsy hates the squirrely folk, right enough. He greets their kind with these harsh words:

"Squirrel-kind, you take a flyin screw at the moon!"

So you just know those squirrels got no use for Slimpsy, either. It goes back a long ways, longer than the spiderweb strings that fly the stars like kites, so dont you even ask.

Slimpsy sneezed and nearly blew hisself back out the other side of the bogey fields. A wheeze and a loogie-hock, and he was just feelin most miserable for his very tiny self. Slimpsy nabbed a damp stalk of sour-fly weed, ripped it out of the slushy earth, and brandished it at the deep night sky, screaming:

"DAMMIT."

He throttled that stalk of sour-fly weed, poked it at each star, but couldnt think of anything else to say. It wasnt doing a damn bit of good, so he dropped it and continued on his way. He muttered unwords in the special mystic language of the Boogins family that set all the weeds and wildflowers withering and wilting, turning to green scribbles in the mud. Pretty soon, ol Slimpsy was the only thing upright in the bogey fields. He picked his sharp horn of a nose with a pinky finger and flicked the results at a pockmark in the wet earth, idly hoping a booger tree would grow and make all the animal folk sick from its salty blossoms. Deer, in particular, cant resist booger tree blossoms, and never seem to remember how much it churns up their stomachs later.

A glint! A triangle of light sparking by the thorn bushes! Slimpsy ran slopfoot slopfoot, because it was starting to rain again. Big fat drops on his head, nearly braining him a good one each time. He drew near and saw it was a tin soup can on its side. All dry inside, and just the right size for Slimpsy Boogins. But could he park his stitch-gabbled ass in that tin can?

Poorly, sadly, simply, NO. He listened to the music the rain made hitting the tin. Ping pang ding. Ching-ching dring. A tear welled up in Slimpsys eye, for a Boogins can only take shelter in a living thing. Slimpsy thought, "Cans aint living. They aint even natural. Theys man-made and thats a poor thing."

So he went in underneath the thorn bushes because the rain was really starting to pick up. But next thing he knew, his feet were all tangled in the gnarled-knuckle roots, and those pokey little thorns were pickin and scratchin at his clothes. He thrashed a wild little "Lemme-out!" jig and scooted back out from underneath those bushes. He thought he heard laughing.

He turned and peered into the forest. The raindrops pelted him. It was drier in there, amongst the big tall trees. But Slimpsy usually kept clear of those trees because of can you guess what?

Squirrels.

"Well, they can just take a flyin screw at the moon!" he huffed, and stomped away into the trees anyway. He stomped right up to the laughing tree and banged on the side of it, right next to the little chewed-out hole. Little squirrel-tooth chew marks.

(TOK TOK TOK, went Slimpsys wee fist.) "Squirrel-folk! Squirrel-folk, you come down and get me in there! I aint tellin ya to take a flyin screw at the moon, Im just wantin a place to park my ass. Its wet and cold and my yella gourd-house is all mushed out. Hey! Squirrel-folk!"

The laughter had stopped, and he waited for an invitation. Booginses cant just slip into other folks abodes without a proper-like invite. Slimpsy scooped a stray acorn from the ground and chucked it high at the tree. K-THOK.

Finally, a weary voice piped, "Slimpsy Sprite, what you want?!" and two yellow eyes glared from that little hole.

"Im tellin ya, Im mushed outta my house! I needs me a shelter til the rain stops!"

A chattering conference was held quickly inside the old tree. Then a rust-colored paw stuck itself out beneath Slimpsys nose and a voice barked, "Well, come on, then! Get your ass in here. But no Boogins spell-casting, or well bury you deep in the ground like a nut, and even you with your spiky little claws wont be able to dig yourself out!"

So thats how Slimpsy came to spend the night in a hollowed-out tree with a squirrel family, despite the fact that they all smelled pretty rotten to each other. Those squirrel tunnels are pretty narrow and tight, and whenever Slimpsy would scoot from one room to the next, if he happened to meet a squirrel in the passageway the both of them would just shudder and quake if fur touched sprite.

And remember, Slimpsy werent much bigger than a squirrels tin lunch pail, so those furry folk just towered and glowered over him in the common rooms of that hollow tree. Eyes all yellow like eggyolks, sizzling with warnings. Slimpsy muttered, but never cast a single spell. He didnt want to end up stuck deep in the earth like an acorn!

He curled up at last in an empty room with leaves hanging on the walls like tapestries. Red-gold, gold-red, and all the colors in between. It made Slimpsy think back to the fall, and then as his thoughts dripped off into a pool of sleep, he thought even further back. In a dream he remembered something forgotten.

Many hundreds of years ago, when Slimpsy was a young sprite, he lived in another gourd-house. Only this one werent yellow. It were a greeny-white like something glowing sickly in a deep dank cave. Slimpsy loved that greeny-white gourd! He had hollowed it out proper and loved the soft feel of it against his butt, and the musty, frusty smell of its ever-so-slowly rotting flesh.

Now, all of this was before Slimpsy hated the squirrely folk. He had no reason to care either way. That is, until one rainy night when a squirrel poked at Slimpsys gourd-house and squeaked, "Oh, please, Mister Slimpsy Sprite! Its rainy wet and I am cold! Weasels have stolen my home from me, and I have nowhere to go!"

So after much grumbling, Slimpsy had found himself crammed fold-leggy toe-jab into that gourd with a member of the furry folk. And all night it was poke-eye "Sorry-sorry!" poke-eye "Sorry-sorry!"

Well, when morning came and Slimpsy cracked open an eyefull, he immediately thought it seemed less crowded. Then he saw why.

The beautiful greeny-white cave-glow gourd was gone! All et up by that nasty little squirrel! The only trace of it left were a few chunky crumbs of gourd-flesh, and Slimpsy was a-sittin on those! The rain had stopped, and the squirrel (his nasty self) was standing there by Slimpsy, nosing at the last few crumbs, and bumping Slimpsys ass with his cold little nose. When the squirrel saw Slimpsys eyes open, he squeaked:

"Oops. Sorry! I was hungry." and scampered off into the trees, a criminal on the run.

But Slimpsy never caught that same squirrel again, so from that day forward his hatred for the squirrely folk was begun. Shakin his spiky, spritely fist and hollerin "You squirrel-kind, you take a flyin screw at the moon!"

Well, this was the dream, a memory-dream beneath autumn leaves in a squirrels tree. So Slimpsy shot upright, knuckled his eyes, and gazed around hisself with a not-knowin-what-to-do kinda wonder. The remembering made him feel all spookly and fulla funny tickles. Like anger tickles, and tickles of regret. Tickles of longing for that old greeny-white gourd.

Slimpsy had these ideas, sharp as tacks in his skull. Mean, red, revenge kinda ideas. Like eating all the acorns stored in the tree while the squirrel-kind slept! Or gnawing a slice through the base of the tree, beaver-like, so that itd topple at the slightest hitch. Or, even worse, wrapping all the squirrel-babies up in a sack and stickin em deep in the mud, like the squirrels had threatened to do to Slimpsy.

And then Slimpsy just couldnt keep hisself from thinkin on the kindness of those squirrely folk for putting him up for the night. Because all those hundreds of years back, Slimpsy had felt pretty kind all right when he let that bad squirrel sleep in his gourd. He saw how it would be just as bad of him to slip a meanness in now as it had been for that old squirrel to slip a meanness in on him.

When the squirrel-folk got up and a-movin that morning, they found the room with the tapestry leaves empty, save for a shaving of bark on the floor, with a message from Slimpsy scrawled across it with a spiky-sharp claw.

"Skwirrrl-kind: Dont go eatin gords."

Well, those furry folk hooted and hollered with chattery laughter over that one. They took it as a snot-nosed jab from a snot-nosed sprite. Little did they know it was an almost-friendly warning made in all serious-type thought. For, as Slimpsy scrabbled his way out through those squirrel tunnels and back into the forest, he was a-mutterin and a spellin for all he was worth. Mystic language of the Boogins family! And the spell was cast only on those squirrels who should make the mistake of eatin a gourd. ANY gourd, not even just a Slimpsy gourd. The magic would make a squirrels eyeballs light on fire if gourd flesh touched squirrel tongue!

So he had warned em, fair and square. And now Slimpsy no longer shouts, "Squirrel-kind, you take a flyin screw at the moon!" because why should he need to? All he has to do is sit back on his tiny, bony little haunches in his brand new slowly rotting orange-ish gourd and wait to hear a squirrel run by screaming with his eyeballs a-fire. Because then Slimpsy will know that the right squirrel has been punished for the crime of gourd-eatin.

-THE END-