Pop Goes the Weasel

Pop Goes the Weasel

Wilbur Weasel, a creature quite meek, with a twitchy brown nose, Hid amongst clutter, his whiskers a-quiver, from the cacophony that arose. It was market day, a whirlwind of sound, with shouts, squawks, and a clatter, Wilbur, new to the town, felt his heart beat a frantic patter. A booming voice echoed, "Pop goes the weasel! The game's about to start!" Wilbur's fur stood on end, every playful pop made his tiny soul depart. He darted and dodged, a blur of brown fur, through bustling legs and feet, Until finally, with a desperate squeak, he stumbled upon a retreat. A dusty old box, tucked in a corner, with a musty, forgotten scent, Wilbur squeezed inside, his fear momentarily spent. He covered his ears, his eyes squeezed shut tight, as the "pops" echoed near, Wishing with all his might, for the market day to disappear. Suddenly, a gentle voice, like a soothing summer breeze, "Are you alright in there, little one?" it whispered through the trees. Wilbur peeked out, a cautious brown eye, to see a kindly old badger smile, Holding a steaming cup, and a face free of guile. "Come out, little weasel," the badger coaxed, with a twinkle in his eye, "This game is all about fun, not something to make you cry!" Wilbur, hesitant at first, emerged from his box, a sniffle and a sigh, The badger offered him tea, and a warm, buttery pie. The "pops" still continued, but they didn't seem so scary now, Wilbur watched, his fear replaced by a curious, growing brow. The badger explained the game, the chase, the laughter, the glee, Wilbur, with a newfound hope, decided he'd give it a try, you see. The next "Pop!" found Wilbur, not cowering in fright, But darting with newfound joy, under the warm market light. He might not have been the fastest, but he played with all his might, And learned that sometimes, the biggest treasures come from facing your fright.