"Has she lost her magic powers?" asked Wilbur the Acrobatic Goat.
"Hardly, " I assured him.
"Can she still be the notary with only one?" asked Goose.
"I don't see why not," I replied.
We were all looking down on the ground as we spoke. There before us all was a horn. But not any horn. This horn had a million memoirs written on it - each break out, each head stuck in the fence moment, each banging open the gate for me in the morning - they were all written in the scars on that horn. It was like finding a relic, a scrimshaw.
"What will you do with it," asked Stevie, concerned.
"We will gather with The Head Troll to decide this. We will let her make the final decision."
"It would be nice and crunchy, like chips," mentioned The Pig.
"We will not eat it, Rosie," I said.
"It has magic in it, I've seen her use them," said Golda the hen.
"Let's auction it on EBay!" said Raggedy Man.
"We could use the money for winter sweaters," said Professor Otis Littleberry.
"Or cookies," said The Puppet.
Wait a minute, how did the Puppet get out here?
OK, that's all for now. The Head Troll is not mourning, but she's not pleased I poured iodine on her stump.
"Don't call it a stump!" she just screamed from the background.
We will give her some time to see how and what she wants to do with her horn. For now, it is in a secret place in a plain locked wooden box with the initials T.H.T. carved on the side. I've never seen what she hides in there but am dying too, I must admit.
