Hattie the hippo laughed so loudly that the lilies trembled. She laughed at sneezing frogs, at clouds shaped like cabbages, and once at her own reflection when a leaf stuck to her nose. Along the river, everyone called her Happy Hippo.
Hattie liked the name. Soon she began to think it was her job.
A party without a song
On the morning of the river picnic, Hattie woke to a grey sky and a heavy feeling she could not explain. She tried her biggest laugh. It came out like a squeaky gate.
“Never mind,” she told her reflection. “Someone will need cheering up.”
She carried a basket of water apples to the clearing. The otters were hanging reed ribbons. Tortoise was arranging cups. Beneath a willow, Pip the kingfisher sat beside a little flute made from a hollow twig.
“Play us something!” Hattie called, putting on a smile.
Pip tucked the flute beneath his wing. “I cannot. The song was my grandfather’s. Today I keep forgetting the middle.”
Hattie balanced an apple on her head. Usually that made everyone laugh. Pip only looked at his feet.
Room beneath the willow
Hattie lowered the apple. For once, she had no joke ready. She sat beside Pip, carefully, so the bank would not crumble.
“Would you like me to go?” she asked.
“No,” said Pip. “But you do not have to make me happy.”
The words surprised her. Above them, rain began to tap on the willow leaves. Hattie moved a little closer, making a dry place beneath her broad chin. They listened to the drops together.
After a while she said, “I feel quiet today, too.”
Pip leaned against her shoulder. Neither of them tried to fix the afternoon.
The missing middle
Across the clearing, the otters tugged a ribbon loose. Tortoise stacked the cups beneath a leaf. Then a gust caught the picnic cloth and sent it sailing into the river.
Hattie waded after it. The cloth settled across her back like an enormous spotted cape. She turned to shore with two cups balanced between her ears.
Pip made a small, startled chirp. Then he laughed. Hattie laughed too, a real laugh this time, warm and unexpected.
“That is it!” Pip cried. “The middle goes just like that!”
He lifted his flute. A wavering little tune rose above the rain: two quick notes, a pause, and a tumbling run like laughter finding its way home.
A different kind of happy
They held the picnic beneath the willow. The apples were wet, the ribbons crooked, and the cups smelled faintly of river water. Pip played his grandfather’s song twice. On the third time, everyone hummed along.
“Our Happy Hippo saved the party,” said an otter.
Hattie considered this. “Pip helped me first.”
That evening, she watched the river turn pink beneath the clearing sky. She still felt a little quiet. Beside her, Pip practised the tricky middle of his song.
Hattie did not need to fill the silence. She simply sat with her friend until the first stars appeared.
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