Swampy opened one eye very carefully. Then he yawned and stretched his arms as wide as they would go. All of his blankets fell off the bed as he stretched, and when he tried to pull them back up, he fell out of bed with a clump.
“Time to get up, I suppose,” he decided.
So he did.
It was very early morning in Bewilderwood. Spring was just nudging winter away with its little green shoots and fluffy white blossoms. There was a soft mist hanging over the marshes where Swampy lived, and the white shrouded sun was low in the sky.