Pip the little squirrel hated summer the most.
The sun was like a huge ball of fire, baking his tree hollow until it was toasty warm. His fluffy tail stuck together and drooped like a mop. “If only winter would come back right away,” Pip sighed. “Cool snow, crisp ice—how comfortable that would be.”
But summer was only halfway through.
That afternoon, Pip was lying on a branch, lost in thought, when he suddenly heard a “jingle-jingle—jingle-jingle—” coming from beneath the tree. He peered down and saw Old Raccoon pushing a little white cart with a wooden sign hanging from it, on which was drawn a plump little cloud.
“What’s that?” Pip asked.
“It’s the magic of summer,” Grandpa Raccoon said with a smile. He opened the tin lid on the cart, and a puff of cool, white mist burst out, like a tiny cloud floating into the air. The mist carried a sweet scent—strawberries, milk, and just a hint of sunshine.
Grandpa used a round spoon to scoop a pink ball out of the tin bucket and place it on the crispy cone. “Here, have a taste.”
Pip cautiously licked a little bit.
“Wow—”
In that instant, the cool, sweet treat melted on the tip of his tongue, like a tiny icy star exploding. He felt every hair on his body stand on end, then slowly lie back down. The coolness flowed like a stream from his mouth to his belly, and then all the way to the tip of his tail. His tail wasn’t sticky anymore; it puffed up and curled, like a little fan.
“This is… this is…” Pip couldn’t find the words, so he took another big lick.
“It’s ice cream.” Grandpa Raccoon blinked. “A secret hidden away by summer.”
From that day on, Pip went to see Grandpa Raccoon every day. He discovered vanilla—like moonlight mixed with milk; chocolate—like tree bark but a hundred times tastier; and mint—which sent a cool breeze through his ears when he ate it. Grandpa Raccoon also taught him how to make “Rainbow Layers”: blueberries at the bottom, banana in the middle, and a bright red strawberry candy ball on top, like a little hat.
Pip no longer hated summer. He began to discover that summer had the chirping of cicadas as background music, a warm breeze blowing on his back, and the excitement and joy of quickly licking up each drop as the ice cream slowly melted in his hand.
One evening, Pip sat in the treetops holding his last scoop of ice cream, watching the sunset. The sky was ablaze with the color of orange marmalade, and the evening breeze was gentle and warm.
“If winter comes,” he muttered to himself, “will the ice cream disappear?”
Old Raccoon had appeared beneath the tree at some point and said with a smile, “Winter has its own magic, and summer has its own. But you know, as long as you remember this taste, the ice cream will always be here.”
Pip thought for a moment, then slowly swallowed the last bite of ice cream. As the coolness slid down his throat, he suddenly felt that the summer heat wasn’t so bad after all—because it was the heat that made the coolness so precious.
He crawled into the tree hollow, curled his fluffy tail into a little pillow, and closed his eyes. A hint of strawberry’s sweetness lingered on his tongue, cool and refreshing, like a piece of candy made of dreams.
Outside the window, the stars began to twinkle one by one, and the summer evening breeze gently rustled the leaves, as if whispering, “Sleep, sleep—there’s more ice cream tomorrow.”
Pip smiled. He dreamed of winter—but the winter snow tasted like strawberries.
Good night.
