Pip the Bravest Snail

The Smallest Snail in the Garden

Pip was a snail.

Not a big snail. Not a fast snail. Pip was the smallest, slowest snail in the whole green garden.

It took Pip all morning to cross one cabbage leaf. It took him all afternoon to cross it back. The other snails had whooshed off ages ago. (Well. As much as a snail can whoosh.)

But because Pip went so slowly, he saw things nobody else saw. He saw the dewdrop balanced on the spider's web like a tiny glass ball. He saw the ladybird counting her own spots. He saw where the ripest, sweetest leaves grew, low and hidden, under the gooseberry bush.

"You see, my Pip," Gran always said, "the slow ones see the most."

His shell was the size of a pea. A small pea. The other snails had grand swirly shells, brown and shiny, big as buttons. But Pip's shell had a tiny chip on the side, right where it curled, and he did not like it one bit.

"You'll grow into it," said Gran.

Gran was the oldest snail under the rhubarb leaf. She knew everything. She knew which leaves were sweet and which were sour. She knew the safe ways and the slow ways. And she loved Pip more than all the dew in the morning.

When Pip slid across a leaf, he left a thin line behind him. It shimmered. It shone.

"That's the prettiest silver in the garden," said Gran.

Pip did not think it was pretty. He thought it was silly. The silver line showed everybody exactly where he had been — and exactly how slowly he had got there.

Just then, Jasper the grasshopper sprang past in one enormous hop.

"Slow," said Jasper, looking down his long green nose. "Slow, slow, slow. Snails can't do anything. Snails can't be brave."

Everybody said it. Snails can't be brave.

Pip pulled a little way into his shell. Then he hummed his slow song, the one Gran had taught him when he was very small.

Slow and steady, slow and steady, slide, slide, slide.

It made him feel better. A little.

"Don't you mind Jasper," said Gran. "Slow isn't bad, my Pip. Slow is just careful, taking its time."

Pip looked at his silly silver trail. It wound all the way back to the cabbage leaf — a whole morning's slither, no longer than your littlest finger.

He tucked his eyes down low. Careful was for big snails with grand swirly shells. Not for a small pea like him.

---

The Night the Storm Came

That night, the wind began to grumble.

It pushed the leaves this way. It pushed the leaves that way. The whole garden rustled and tossed and shivered.

Then the rain came down. Plip. Plip. PLIP. Fat and fast and cold.

Under the rhubarb leaf, Pip tucked in tight beside Gran.

"Stay close," said Gran. "Storms pass. They always do."

The thunder boomed. BOOM. The garden shook. Far away, Pip heard the water gurgle and rush, louder and louder, all night long.

He held very still. He hummed his slow song to keep the dark away.

Slow and steady... slow and steady... slide... slide...

And after a long, long time, his eyes drooped shut.

When Pip woke, the storm was over.

The garden was quiet.

Too quiet.

---