The Dragon Who Learned to Breathe Softly
Brindle the dragon lived in a snug shed behind Mrs. Fenn's bakery. She was friendly and good-natured, but she was always careful, too. Her breath was so ferociously hot that it had once toasted an entire row of the baker's muffins into black stones.
One frosty morning, the big oven cracked and stopped working. The fair was only a day away, and forty loaves of bread still needed to rise. Bread dough requires a warm place to grow, and in the freezing bakery, it sat flat and miserable.
"If only I had a gentle fire," Mrs. Fenn sighed heavily.
Brindle's tail twitched nervously. "I could try," she said. "But I might burn everything to cinders."
Then she remembered how she fogged a window on a cold day. That kind of breath was not fire at all. It was merely warm air. Brindle drew in a deep breath and released it as slowly as a sleepy yawn.
A soft, warm cloud drifted over the bowls. The dough did not burn. Instead, it swelled a little. Brindle kept breathing, one slow sigh after another, and the dough climbed higher and higher until it peeked over the rims of the bowls.
By sunset, the loaves were ready for baking in a neighbor's oven. Mrs. Fenn handed Brindle the first warm slice. "You are not a flame," she said fondly. "You are a warm morning."