Poorimole -

Deep under the garden, where the old rose bushes tang their roots like forgotten prayers, lived a mole named Schmuel. He was called the poorimole by the other burrowing creatures—not because he lacked worms or tunnels, but because his eyes, two tiny black beads, always seemed to be weeping. Not tears, exactly. A kind of dampness, as if the weight of the earth above pressed sorrow out of him.

And Schmuel, the poorimole, wept—not from sorrow this time, but because even in the dark, someone had looked for him.

(Interpreted as a blend of poor + mole + perhaps Purim — the Jewish holiday of masks and reversal of fortune.) The Poorimole