The Weaver's Surprise
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The
Weaver’s Surprise
WRITTEN BY TOM KNISELY
ILLUSTRATED BY MEGAN LLOYD
STACKPOLE
BOOKS
Guilford, Connecticut
I would like to dedicate this book to my three grandchildren,
Windsor, Imogen and Jai, for they are just as curious and
sometimes mischievous as the mice in this book.
I love you,
Gumpah
To Mom and Dad. Your support made my sheep life, weaving life,
and book life possible.
Eternal gratitude and love.
ML
Published by Stackpole Books
An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.
4501 Forbes Blvd., Ste. 200
Lanham, MD 20706
www.stackpolebooks.com
Distributed by NATIONAL BOOK NETWORK
800-462-6420
Text Copyright © 2019 by Tom Knisely
Illustrations © 2019 by Megan Lloyd-Thompson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission
from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information available
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
ISBN 978-0-8117-3821-7 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-8117-6822-1 (e-book)
First Edition
Contents
The Weaver’s Surprise
Down a long winding road, in a low-lying meadow, an old man weaves rugs
on a loom.
One day, while the old man was weaving in his cottage, a family of mice
scurried through the meadow searching for a winter home.
Suddenly, they stopped.
Strange sounds floated over the tall grass.
“What’s that?” cried one small mouse.
“It’s coming from that cottage,” said another.
“Maybe someone’s making dinner?” asked a third, very hungry mouse.
“Let’s go see,” said the father.
Father Mouse found a hole in the cottage wall.
Just as the last little mouse squeezed through, they heard:
Mother Mouse tried to cover the ears of all her babies. The loom made such
a racket that the mice couldn’t hear themselves squeak!
The mice pressed themselves into a corner behind several rolled-up rugs
and watched as the weaver stepped on the treadles of the loom.
The warp threads in front of the weaver separated, opening wide like a
yawning cat’s mouth.
The weaver threw a shuttle of rags into the opening,
Then the weaver grabbed the swinging beater and brought it forward, very
hard.
He did it again.
“That’s the noise we heard in the meadow!”
“What’s he doing?”
The mice looked around. Piles and piles of small strips of rags dotted the
floor. Spools of all different colored threads filled the shelves. The weaver
had tools that spun around and around, some clicking,some whirring.
Rolled-up rugs were stacked in every corner.
“I think he’s making rugs!”
said the youngest mouse.
While Father and the little mice were staring, Mother Mouse went looking
for food. She returned with paws full of nuts and crackers and crumbs of
cheese. A feast!
“Oh, can we stay here all winter?” asked a tiny mouse, her mouth stuffed
with cheddar.
“It’s awfully loud when the weaver is working,” said the father. “It might be
hard to sleep with all the SWISHING and THUMPING and BUMPING.”
But that night, tired from a long day in the meadow, and with full bellies,
the mice curled up in one of the weaver’s rugs and fell fast asleep.
In the days that followed the mice hopped from rug to rug, searching for
one that would make the perfect winter home.
Finally Mother chose a particularly pretty rug close to the food cupboard
and tucked in a far corner, almost out of the weaver’s sight. But this rug was
very tightly woven, so it wasn’t as soft as some.
“I can fix that,” said Father Mouse, and he began to chew on some of the
threads. He chewed and chewed until he made a large hole, hidden in the
middle of the rolled-up rug. He lined the hole with the colorful fluff made
from the shredded threads.
“We could sleep here all winter,” squeaked the little mice.
One day, a man and his wife came to the weaver’s cottage searching for the
perfect rug. The wife wanted one that had her favorite colors—green and
blue and purple—and there, in the far corner, was just the rug she wanted.
The weaver pulled the rug to the center of the room. But when he began to
unroll it . . .
