Once upon a time there were three fox kits, and they were just as clever and mischievous as any fox kit has ever been. They were all named, of course, by their mother – great familial names, full of reverence and heritage. But everyone called them Big Ears, Sniffles, and the Little One.

Big Ears was the oldest, with ears as keen as any other resident of the Wood; he could hear the ants skittering below the grass, and the flap of a bird’s wing above the afternoon leaves. The middle kit, Sniffles, was fussed over by aunts and sisters, and by uncles and grandmothers, for always seeming to have caught a cold. But in truth his constant sniffling was not allergies nor a bout of illness, but due to his amazing sense of smell. He always knew when Grandmother baked a fresh pie, no matter where in the Wood the three were playing, and never would it rain but that he could smell it coming, and off the three would run to splash in puddles and mud, to the everlasting concern of their dear mother.

The Little One was quiet, reserved where her brothers were boisterous, clever where they were brash. And she was never seen without her satchel, patched and worn with age, sewn by her great-grandfather’s own hand. Out of the satchel always came exactly what was needed, no matter the moment, with what seemed like a twinkle of something almost magic. Be it a bandage for a wounded paw, water when her brother was thirsty, or pilfered snacks, she was always at the ready for their antics.

And antics abounded with the three fox kits. Always underfoot, the whole of the Wood knew them and, in time, grew exasperated with the havoc and chaos that followed in their wake. There was the incident at the trading meet, where the three had commandeered two stalls when their owners backs were turned, and initiated the Great Vegetable Rumpus. During the autumn harvest, there had been the Great Pumpkin Roll, leaving an entire hillside of broken vines and shattered gourds. And there had been the Mudslide, which had blocked the main road and turned two fields into a squelchy, squishy mess.

And their mother, at wits end, had taken them aside after each incident. She had shouted, then begged, then pleaded with her children – behave! Or all the Wood will turn against you, and you will be banished to the mushy mooshy marshes! And the three foxes would nod seriously and swear up and down that never would they ever again Mother, absolutely not Mother. And so it would go, around and again, until the present day when they were once more marched to her door by their ears, and her patience had worn fragile and thin.

“They have taken the canoes!” declared one neighbor.

“And hidden them somewhere!” cried another.

“They must be punished!” the whole crowd there rumbled, and at this their Mother sighed, and grew embarrassed, and agreed. “They shall be sent to their room,” she declared, “without super, and nor shall they come out again for three days.” At this the crowd was satisfied, and dispersed, and the kits sent to their rooms straightaway.

And no sooner was everyone comfortably back in their homes when it began to rain. And it rained that night, heavy droplets landing pitter patter pat on the leaves and roofs. And it rained all the next day, and the next, until the banks of the stream overflowed, and the water rose, and rose again. Burrows flooded, and fields drowned, and soon enough any who dwelt on the ground clambered into the trees, cold and wet and scared as the waters rushed below them.

“What shall we do!” cried a badger to her neighbors. “We are trapped!”

“We must make for the High Hill,” replied the eldest squirrel, as his relatives helped more into the soaked and sodden branches. “It’s the only place we will all be safe.”

“But we cannot,” groused a grouse, feathers dripping. “There’s not enough of me and my kin to carry you lot, and the waters are too high and fast. Any who try will be swept away!”

And at that moment through the trees floated a great raft of canoes, strung together with string and cord and leather bits. And atop it, triumphant, the three fox kits, paddles flashing furiously as they battled through the currents. The neighbors all goggled as the raft floated close, until Big Ears shouted up to them, “Well? What are you lot waiting for?”

“Let’s go!” cried Sniffles, nose held high.

And all of the neighbors clambered down into the raft, where the foxes’ mother awaited with wool blankets and hastily snatched food, to bundle them up into the boats while the three kits cast off. “What is this?” they all marveled, “The three troublemakers are helping!”

“Let me explain,” soothed their mother, watching as the Little One pulled a map of the Wood from her satchel. And as the three worked together, the Little One steering and Big Ears and Sniffles locating each soaked and sullen cluster of neighbors, she told of how the three had come to her at last to explain. How each of their misadventures had been cooked up by the Little One, not to harm, but to help the Wood. She had noticed neighbors struggling to trade their produce, and decided to help them gain attention. Sniffles had sniffed out the sour smell of Gourd Rot, and the three knew that losing some of the crop was better than losing it all. And the three had come across the old, decaying beaver dam, deep in the Woods, and the waters they knew would sweep down and cause havoc if they did not do some quick digging to divert their path.

“And so when Big Ears heard far off thunder,” concluded their mother proudly, “and Sniffles smelled rain on the wind, my Littlest One had them take the boats and tie them to the branches of a tall tree, so they would not wash away.”

Still in shock, but surrounded all around by the rushing water and the proof of the words, the creatures of the Wood had no time to ponder. The three foxes led the way, and soon each and every one of their neighbors were rescued, pulled onto the slowly growing raft with all they could carry. Working together, all of them pushed and heaved, rowed and paddled their way to the tallest hill in the Wood, still standing tall above the flood. And there they landed, soaked and sodden but all accounted for, exhausted but safe.

The three foxes finished the last few knots to secure the raft, and then came before all the assembled creatures. “We’re sorry,” said the Little One, hesitantly. “For taking the boats without asking, I mean.” And Big Ears and Sniffles both nodded apologetically.

There was a short pause, before all of the creatures rushed forward and gathered the three into the biggest collective hug the Wood had ever seen, their mother first among them. And she nuzzled her kits lovingly. “You are forgiven, my little ones. But next time, maybe consider talking to us first.”

And such was the way of it!