Vernon Vole: Seven Short Rhyming Stories

By Hyll Fox

Not wanting to be late, one fine morning, one fine day, Vernon Vole and his friends get underway and head for their annual village fete. Once there, they enjoy all the fun of the fair, meeting friends old and new, and later at a tea party, even a gnu.
On their next venture together, again in good weather, they arrive at a market, selling all sorts of things; one stall being run by a gnat, another ran by both a bat and a fox, who, like his colleague, apparently has wings.
This collection of seven short stories, written in a freeform rhyming verse style by Hyll Fox, will charm and delight in equal measure, making this collection the perfect addition to any bookshelf.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AG Books
• Release date: Sep 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789820669

Book preview

Vernon Vole and His Friends Go to the Fete

Vernon Vole came out of the door of his Hole,

Saw Rufus Rat and Malcolm Mole,

And wearing pork-pie hats, boots and dungarees,

The three met under two conker trees.

Then, walking down the lane with its verges freshly mowed,

They somehow bumped into Freddie Frog and Maurice Toad,

Haversacks, packed, with provisions they’d stowed,

Croaking away, happy as a brace of Pheasants, ready for the road.

And off they went, jumping through a five-barred gate,

At the bottom of the field, clambering up a drystone wall,

And dropping down onto a ledge, didn’t hesitate,

From diving into a blackberry hedge, head first – gooseberries, one and all;

Over a stile, then running ’cross the heather,

The five of them laughed together in the glorious sunny weather.

And run they did, like the wind, trailing behind them, high in the sky, a big bright

Red kite,

Playing all sorts of funny games,

Leapfrog, Piggyback Ted, then, Find-the-Leeks, Tickie-Chain, and Hop Plops?

A kind of Hopscotch!

Calling each other silly names,

Worm-Hog, Bubblehead, Chubby Cheeks, Chicken Brain and Cheeky Chops,

Quite a hotchpotch!

Starting out early, two hours after first light,

They followed until it faded, the Morning Star,

And now, passing by a gurgling stream,

Out of which leapt Char

And Silver Bream,

Something,

Wind-borne, far up above, gliding on the wing,

Trailed behind them, unseen, out of sight.

Chuckling away,

Almost flying this day,

They raced on ahead,

Spirits soaring high,

And pleased they’d got this far,

Stopping for a breather, a swig of cool, ice cream soda, a flaky, chocolate bar,

Crispy, juicy pears, and unwary of outstretched feathers, circling hungrily overhead,

A peppery, meaty, minced mutton, Scotch pie!

Hovering now, almost motionless in the air,

Anxiously waiting for the right moment to swoop, plummet down, for a share of their fare,

Mindful of the dangers lurking everywhere,

In a split second, all focused concentration came to no avail,

Spooked by the antics of the corkscrewing, twisting red, triangular sail,

And below, as they reeled in their kite,

Foiled, the winged hunter sheered off, to take up station, and stack up above another site,

Cheated decisively, of a tasty bite!

Heading for the ‘spinning jenny’,

After spending a penny,

They hurried on, quicker than popping peapods, and shelling peas,

Scampering over meadows, full of tansy, cornflowers and rockroses,

All around, the sound of humming Bees,

Butterflies, landing on, and tickling their noses.

Reaching the Old Windmill,

With its timeworn sundial,

The friends paused once more, for a short while,

Listening to the melodious chorus of notes, issuing from a Song Thrush’s bill,

Clearing away mistletoe,

That had all but covered the ancient timepiece, and making out it was a little after ten—

All watched unknowingly, by an inquisitive, Jenny Wren—

Took a shortcut, picking their way through prickly blackthorn, heavy with sloe.

Entering Magpie Copse,

An admixture of chestnut, hazel, twisted oak, and climbing hops,

On they went, as quiet as could be,

Here and there, passing by clumps of goosegrass and late flowering, pink-tinged, anemone,

But the still, sullen silence of the small wood was about to shatter,

Soon hearing, high up in the trees, unwelcome, harsh, hostile chatter,

‘Shaaak, shaaak! Shaaak, shaaak!’

Magpies, Jays, resenting intrusion into their domain, all well hidden,

Driven to react, as they were instinctively bidden,

Their challenging cries – ‘Shaaak, shaaak! Shaaak, shaaak!’

Setting up Woodcocks and Wood Pigeons, wings clapping, twigs cracking, making a clatter,

And as Vernon Vole and his friends splashed through a burbling brook,

Caught glimpses – just flashes of black and white, pink and bright blue plumage, scatter.

Out of the copse, saw them race up a knoll, down the other side, seeking their favourite nook,

A long-fallen horse chestnut tree, covered in scarlet elf cup,

Beneath of which poured, a narrow tinkling waterfall, all partaking of a quick sup.

Then in Longbottom Spinney,

They met two Tabby Cats from the Clan McKinney,

One saying, ‘Och, well now, I’m called Tamsin,

And yet my young tartan brother here, calls me Tasmin!’

Who dressed in a kilt and wearing his sporran said, ‘Hal-lo everyone, they call me Puddy.’

Then both sang, as they did like to tease,

Most un-Scottishly, more Siamese,

‘We dance on our hind legs, but our feet… never get muddy…’

Tamsin in her red-checked pinny, Puddy in a tree,

Each with one paw, touching a knee.

They carried on through Bluebell Wood, beneath its ancient boughs, dazzling sunlight

Sparkling through the greenleaf, sweet, twittering song of Linnet and Twite.

Suddenly, a white, woolly something appeared wearing only spats, and as if locked in a trance

Malcolm Mole dreamily enquired, ‘Gosh! Wow, what are Ewe, one of those Sheeps?!’

‘Yes, I’m baa, baa, baa, baa, Barbara Anne, aynd, I just lurve reading the diary of Sam Pepys!’

Quickly adding, ‘Also, I’m… er, lookin’ for romance,

Thought I’d give some lucky minty critter, half a chance…’

‘Barbara Anne!’ They gasped in wonder. ‘Then, come with us to the Fete, there’s a barn dance!’

‘Wahay! Why, little ol’ me might find someone dressed in party pants?’

‘Yes, come on Babs Sheep,’ urged Rufus Rat. ‘There’s a great band playing there – The Ants!’

‘Ooohwee! The Ants! Okay, I’m mighty impressed,’ said Barbara Anne,

And so was a passing Bee, called Dan.

‘Oi! Hang about, what’s going on, where are you lot, you eight be shoein’?’

Asked Chortle Hare, with his chums, Michael and Mildred Field Mouse.

‘Going to the Fete,’ explained Vernon Vole. ‘Why, what you be doin’?’

‘Can we tag along?’ said the scatterbrained Hare. ‘Y’see… we’ve gone ’n’ lost our house!’

‘Hold on a moment,’ Vernon Vole responded in disbelief. ‘Let me fully rouse…

What did you say, you soused, pickled-walnut? You’ve lost your house!’

‘Oh yes,’ replied Chortle Hare. ‘Believe you me, I’ve started to Grouse…’

Plunging his head into a bucket of soapy water, giving his whiskers, a jolly good douse.

‘Not only that,’ exclaimed Michael Field Mouse,

‘My sister Mildred’s got a new pet, a big brown Woodlouse!’

The twelve moved off, saw Old Man Fox,

Digging in his garden, his wife sat darning socks.

‘Is Phillip Fox in?’ asked Vernon Vole.

And Mr Fox replied, ‘Yes, he won’t be a moment, he’s stabling his Foal.’

‘Can I ask further, have you seen Turpin Otter on the river rowin’?’

‘Never mind him lad, look how big, me bloomin’ rhubarb’s growin’!’

Strolling by his run of Coots, Phillip Fox appeared, combing his brush, eating a puffball pie,

Wearing a pink hunting jacket, black knee-length boots, jodhpurs and a fancy striped tie,

As Mildred Field Mouse’s pet Woodlouse, looking to the sky,

Jumped off her nose, to see if he could fly.

Just before they got to the Fete, the thirteen saw on the river,

Turpin Otter rowing hither and thither,

And when Freddie Frog exclaimed energetically, he was going for a quick dip and a splash,

Malcolm Mole replied regrettably, ‘I’d come with you, but I’d ruin my fine, pencil moustache.’

‘Hang on!’ said Phillip Fox. ‘Who’s that with Turpin sat in his rowing boat?’

‘Goodness me…’ cried out Rufus Rat. ‘It’s William Weasel, and Billie Stoat!’

After mooring up along the reach,

The Otter, the Weasel, and the Stoat joined the others on the scene,

Making sixteen,

Paid their four pennies each,

Entered the Fete,

And started to percolate:

Munching away on their toffee apples, Maurice Toad’s fell off its stick,

And, double quick,

Bounced through a farm gate,

The Toad, calling out after it, ‘Oh that’s just great, come back here, wait!’

But it didn’t. Instead, it rolled on downhill, kissing a cowpat or two, taking a bow,

Alas, not so nice now…

And, it seemed such a loss,

But very soon, they all had their faces stuck in sticky pink candyfloss!

Now Bartrum Badger, was often in the habit

Of being seen with root vegetable and lettuce-loving, Randolph Rabbit,

Saying, on seeing the sixteen, ‘Come on, who’s for some hot Grubs in a bun? I’m famished!’

Randolph Rabbit’s nose twitched and another carrot vanished.

Fundamentally, not knowing how they could really dare,

But two upstanding Reptilians of the cloth, were stood, listening to a crazier,

Mixed-up, hair-raisinglier,

Crackbrained Hare (depending on your opinion), than Chortle Hare,

His brother, Hortle Hare,

Wearing a cowboy hat he’d won at the Fete, stood on a chair,

Declaring, ‘You know, no wonder I used to belch and snort, our ol’ Dad

Who I must admit, was raving mad, just a tad,

Used to sing to us at Christmas – "Turkey, Turkey, ain’t it big,

Eat it all up, you big fat Pig."’

Hearing this, The Reverend Adam Adder hissed into Hortle Hare’s left ear,

‘How s-s-s-strange, I us-s-sed to have a cous-s-sin, called Guinevere.’

However, his cohort, the Verger, named Victor Viper didn’t whisper,

But uttered, a little crisper,

‘No doubt at Christmas-s-s your hous-s-se was-s-s full of cheer?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Hortle Hare. ‘And once I’d sluiced down the eggnog and port,

Not individually, together,

And before I was three sheets, an odd sort,

A little under the weather,

I’d cop hold of the real ale, then, drink the rest of the beer;

Belch! And then our Mam would get pickled on the Christmas Pud,

If she could, then she would,

Then, in her armchair we’d sit her…’

The Reverend Adder imploring, ‘Pleas-s-se excus-s-se my muffled titter.’

Bruce Erkhardt Echidna joined them, saying, ‘G’day diggers, diddlie-do,

And how do you do?

Here, pop a couple of these humbugs in your gobbleboxes, me ol’ cobbers,

Use your best set of choppers, but keep ’em taut,

Grind ’em, give ’em a gnaw,

Then we can all see, who really dribbles, drools and slobbers!’

And Hortle Hare, with a loud guffaw said, ‘Don’t mind if I do sport,

Then I must catch the old charabanc, the bus numbered the 274.’

‘Ah, we are too!’ stated The Reverend Adam Adder.

‘We’re jus-s-st waiting for our church organis-s-st, a, a, Grass-s-s S-s-snake

Known as Dangas-s-s,

Who, while he may regis-s-ster a s-s-scale or two on the ladder,

Really is-s-s, I can as-s-sure you, quite a s-s-soft, s-s-spongy, s-s-simnel cake—

He’s-s-s over there convers-s-sing with thos-s-se box-x-xing Kangas-s-s,’

The Reverend emphasised, pointing with his head at some Roos,

None of whom, as yet, had been able to find the loos.

‘And along with your jaws-s-s,

I’ve heard you’re rather good with your paws-s-s,

As-s-s well Hortle Hare?’ said Victor Viper.

‘Not so much these days Verger, not since I found this ’ere…’

(Yes, a tense moment here, as nobody knew what he’d discovered, in the weir,

So he held it up high and said), ‘this ’ere windscreen wiper!’

‘Who’s that monster over there?’ asked Tamsin and Puddy Tabby Cat,

And Vernon Vole replied, ‘You mean, that great big bloke

In the dark grey cloak,

Wearing the black, funny, strange looking ’at?’

‘Yes, the one with the big hooter,

Talking to that hairy orange thing on the scooter,

Drinking organic Pilchardade from a can.’

‘That’s Pigbot, the Bogeyman.’

‘And his friend, with the bright tan?’

‘An, Orang-Utan.’

Chipping in, Michael Field Mouse voiced, ‘I’d better just say,

During the heated, sunny hours of day,

We’ve heard Mr Bogeyman hides under our beds,

Then at night,

Pops out to give us all a fright!’

‘Yes,’ said his sister. ‘And cuts off our whiskers and steals all our Teds.’

‘Well now,’ confided Maurice Toad,

‘One night we chased him off down the road,

But later, found him lurking beneath our stairs, with a jar of Tadpoles, planning skulduggery!’

‘Nonsense,

What nonsense!

That won’t wash,

Come on Maurice, be fair,

He only hides under your stairs because he knows you’re posh,

Forever tossing your shiny Terrapins and Swedish meatballs into the air,

Doing your darned jugglery!’

‘Whatever, Malcolm! Either way, Pigbot’s heading this way, I’m off, we’ll leave you to babble…’

‘Yipes, yes crickey, you’re right, let’s skedaddle.’

Next, they heard a sound that went, Hoo, hoo,

And all ran like mad to catch the spooky Ghost Train,

Seeing moaning zombies, groaning Beasts, skeletons

Wearing wellingtons

And, what looked like a strange, olive green thing, pulling on a chain;

Howling Werewolves, locked in a 750 c.c. DAF,

Mummies, rising from tombs, eerie ghouls floating in the air,

An Anteater, strapped into an electric chair…

(And these were just the Ghost Train’s catering staff!).

Then, looming up out of the gloom, they all shuddered to behold a hideous Black Wraithe,

Nursing a headache (he’d brought along with him), from Brancaster Staithe,

Jingling his gaol keys.

Screeching banshees,

With cheese

Allergies, blowing their wide, stunted noses in filthy, dirty hankies.

Creepy claws,

And distended tentacles, crawling out of trapdoors,

Emptying dustbins,

Full of shrieking Hobgoblins,

That ran away on all crooked hind legs, and fores,

Chased by raucous graveyard Rooks, and clacking, Jackdaws.

Whilst in the Shrunken Head,

A lone phantom,

Having tasted the Chicken soup, somehow fell out of its sunken bed,

And crowed out loud, like a Bantam,

As the Ghost Train rattled on down the track, siren blaring,

Bombarded with food thrown by a mad, demented Chimpanzee,

Maurice Toad declaring,

‘Indeed to goodness. Another candidate none too keen on the kedgeree!’

And as they sped towards Cobweb Tunnel, to scare the passengers out of their wits,

(Where Tasmanian Devils and evil Weevils lurked, and great big Fungus-faced Nits),

The ‘olive thing’ suddenly took off his dicky bow, and as he leapt in the cab and put on his cap,

Everyone now realised their coffee waiter was also the engine driver, a Chiffchaff!

Just as well, as his mate, a Blackcap, had knocked off early to have his afternoon nap!

‘Hee, hee, haa, haaa…’ Phillip Fox, laughing deliriously, crying out, ‘This Bird’s havin’ a laugh!’

All of them wailing away as they disappeared into the dark, infernal tunnel,

The train picking up speed with thick smoke belching out of the engine’s funnel,

While locked deep down in fiery dungeons, Vampire Rats and gangling, Spider Crabs,

Gave out agonising screams,

Not because they were having nightmares and the darkest of dreams,

Or the sorry fact they’d let flames from their BBQs, incinerate their, Buy-One-Get-One-Free,

Rancid, marrowfat pea

And luncheon meat kebabs—

They’d simply gone to the fullest of extremes,

And sprinkled excess chilli pepper powder on their ice creams.

But there was much worse yet to behold! – a terrifying Minnow,

Looking out of his aquarium window;

A mysterious Hooded Crow,

Surreptitiously playing on his oboe;

Fiendish Water Bugs (Cryptocerata),

Greedily eating a chipolata;