Zip Tells the Truth
Zip was the quickest rabbit in Clover Field. He could start, stop, and spin so fast that his whiskers drew little circles in the air. His sister, Dot, tried to copy him, but she usually tumbled into the buttercups giggling.
One quiet morning, Zip found a thin, prickly place in the hedge. He nibbled and scratched until he made a small, secret hole. "Only for emergencies," he whispered, peeking through to a safe ditch on the other side. He knew the rule: no new doors without telling the elders. "It's only a little hole," he told himself, and he didn’t tell anyone.
After breakfast, the young rabbits met to play Dash-and-Freeze. Old Badger, who helped keep the meadow safe, waddled over and tapped the ground with his paw. "Remember," he said, "use the marked tunnels. No surprises underground." Zip looked down at his toes. "I didn’t make any new holes," he mumbled, even though his ears felt hot.
They raced between clover puffs and hopped over a line of daisies. Then Dot stopped, nose twitching. A red whisker stretched from the tall grass. Eyes like amber beads watched. Rust the fox!
"Fox!" squeaked Dot. Zip thumped the warning—thump-thump!—and the rabbits scattered. They shot toward the big burrow by the oak tree, feet drumming the earth like rain.
But a broken fence panel had fallen across the path. It made a scratchy wall. Rust slunk closer, tail brushing the grass. His paws were silent. His grin was not.
Zip’s heart beat quick-quick. He knew another way—the secret hole. He swallowed. He didn’t like the word that tickled his tongue: lie. The rabbits glanced at him, trusting.
Zip stood tall for a tiny moment. "I know a way!" he called. "I made a hole in the hedge. I’m sorry I didn’t tell. Follow me!"
He zigged left, he zagged right. Rust pounced where Zip had been a blink before. Zip skittered to a stop so fast the fox slipped, snout-first into a tuft of clover. The rabbits darted after Zip, their ears flat, their eyes bright.
They reached the hedge. The secret hole was small. Dot wriggled in—scritch!—and stuck halfway. "Push!" she squeaked. Zip and two friends scraped and widened the edges with quick, careful paws.
Old Badger arrived, puffing. He didn’t fuss or frown. He planted his broad shoulder beside Zip’s and said, "Together now." Scritch-scritch-scritch! Dot popped through, then the others, and finally Zip squeezed into the cool ditch just as Rust’s nose sniffed at the prickly gap. Too small for a fox. Too clever for a fox.
They breathed. They blinked. The buttercups nodded like they understood.
Zip brushed dirt from his whiskers. "I should have told the truth when I made the hole," he said, voice small but steady. "I was scared to get in trouble."
Old Badger nodded. "Truth keeps us safe because it lets us plan together," he said. "You told us when it mattered, and that was brave. Next time, tell us sooner."
They went back and fixed the hedgerow hole properly—wide enough for rabbits, snug enough to stop a fox. They marked it with a ring of smooth pebbles so every rabbit would know.
Later, when a shadow flickered and the thump-thump sounded again, Zip didn’t hide secrets. "Hedge Door! Three at a time!" he shouted. The rabbits zipped in a neat line, and Rust found only dust and daisy petals where rabbits had been.
Zip still ran fast, maybe faster than the wind—but his words ran true. In Clover Field, quick feet and honest voices made the cleverest escapes of all.
