Gobo told them of marvellous things. “It’s cold outside, and the storm is howling. But indoors, with him, there’s no wind and it’s as warm as in summer.”
“Hach!” screeched the jay.
“Outside, the rain is lashing down from the sky so that everything is in water. But indoors, with Him, there’s not a drop of rain and you stay dry.”
The pheasants twitched their necks up high and turned their heads.
“When everywhere outside was deep in snow, I was inside and nice and warm, I was even quite hot, and He gave me hay to eat, chestnuts, potatoes, turnips, everything I could have wished for ...”
“Hay?!” they all asked in one voice, astonished, incredulous, excited.
“Fresh, sweet hay,” Gobo repeated calmly, and looked triumphantly round at them.
The squirrel tried to squeeze in his voice. “A cousin of mine ...”
“Just be quiet!” the others ordered.
And Faline asked Gobo vigorously, “Where did He get hay from, and all those other things, in the winter?”