The Sheep's Soft Bleat

The Gingerbread Man, his spice-scented legs pumping with an energy that surprised even himself, bounded over a low stone wall. The air was cool and smelled of damp earth and sweet clover, a welcome change from the warm, floury kitchen. He could still hear the faint sounds of the baker’s family, their voices a distant hum that spurred him onward. He chanced a glance back, but the cottage was already shrinking, swallowed by the rolling green fields. He was truly free!

As he ran, a soft, rhythmic sound reached his ears, a gentle *baa-baa-baa* that seemed to drift on the breeze. He rounded a clump of thistles and there they were – a whole flock of sheep, their wool so fluffy and white it looked like clouds had settled in the meadow. They were grazing peacefully, their heads bowed, but as the Gingerbread Man skittered into their midst, their heads popped up, their dark, liquid eyes blinking in surprise.

"Baa! Well, hello there!" bleated a particularly woolly ewe, her voice surprisingly gentle.