The Little Snail Who Went Up the Hill

A little snail woke on a wet green leaf. The morning was soft and gray. A dewdrop rolled by, round and bright.

"I think I'll go up the hill," the snail said. "Slow and sure. Slow and sure."

So the little snail began to climb.

Up over a smooth brown stone, cool and round beneath her. A beetle waved a small black wing.

"Where are you going, little snail?"

"Up the hill," she said. "Slow and sure."

Up through the tall wet grass she went, each blade brushing her shell. A friendly worm looked up from the soft dark ground.

"Would you like a bit of leaf?" asked the worm.

"Yes, please," said the snail. And they nibbled, side by side, in the quiet green.

Up she went again. Slow and sure. The hill grew warm as the sun peeked through. A drop of dew still balanced on her shell, shining like a tiny window.

A ladybug landed near, red as a berry.

"You are almost there," she said.

"Almost there," said the little snail. "Slow and sure."

The last of the climb was soft with moss. Green and cool, green and deep. The little snail pressed each foot down gentle, and the moss held her up.

And then she was at the top.

The whole wide field lay below, gold and green and warm. The wind came soft and said one small thing.

"Rest now, little snail."

So she did.

She curled inside her cozy shell, snug and round. The sun was warm along her back. The dewdrop slid down, slow and sure, and touched the moss without a sound.

Slow and sure, the hill held her. Slow and sure, the warm moss held her. And the little snail, up on the quiet hill, closed her small dark eyes.