Deep inside a green forest lived a Moose who loped. He loped over meadows, between pines, so swiftly the wind sang in his antlers. Everyone called him the Loping Moose, because he loped almost all the time.

When he loped, the ground went thud, thud, thud. Leaves swirled, pinecones hopped, and the small birds scattered like puffs of cloud. The squirrel held onto its tail. The hedgehog pushed back its apples. The deer laughed: "Oh, how you lope!"

The Moose smiled. He loved how his legs carried him far. "I lope to feel the forest fly!" he said. He loped to the lake and back, then up the mountain and down again. Thud, thud, thud.

One evening, clouds as thick as blankets rolled in. The wind whooshed and twilight came early. Then the hare called, small as a tuft: "Is anyone here? I've lost the path!" But the call was faint, faint.

The Moose perked up his ears. "I'll help!" he called, and began to lope. Thud, thud, thud – but the storm roared, the branches cracked, and his own steps sounded like drums. He could only hear his thud.

The owl on her branch blinked calmly. "Big steps find far," she hooted, "but small steps hear small voices. Try to walk slowly, Moose. Listen with the whole forest."

The Moose stopped. He placed his big hooves gently on the moss. No thud, just a faint rustle. He breathed in the scent of pine and rain. He listened. The forest became quiet as a blanket. Then it came again, tiny: "Here... here!"

He followed the sound carefully, pad, pad, pad. Past blueberry bushes, around a stone, over a little stream. In a thicket sat the hare, wet on the nose and with ears that dripped. "I never thought you would hear me," peeped the hare.

"I loped too fast to hear," said the Moose gently. He lowered his head and cleared away the prickly twigs from his antlers. "Climb up between my antlers. We're going home."

They started slowly, pad, pad, pad, so the hare wouldn't bump. When the path opened and the rain lightened, the Moose smiled. "Now we lope a little," he whispered. And with the hare safe between his antlers, he loped through the darkness at just the right speed.

At the clearing, the forest waited. The deer shifted their hooves quietly, the hedgehog rolled forward, and the squirrel waved with its tail. "How did it go?" everyone asked.

"We found each other when we walked slowly," said the hare. "And came home when we loped just right," said the Moose.

The owl nodded. "A forest has many sounds. Sometimes you need thud, sometimes you need whisper."

Since that evening, the Loping Moose still loped. He loped over meadows when his heart was light. But he could also walk softly as a shadow when someone needed a friend. And when the wind sang in his antlers, the forest sang along – not because he was fastest, but because he could both lope and listen.

And if you ever hear thud, thud, thud in the moss and a friendly chuckle in the wind, then you know: the Loping Moose is out walking. Maybe he's loping. Maybe he's padding. Always just right, always kind.