In the heart of a lush, green forest known as the Whispering Woods, there lived a wise old owl named Olivia. Every evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the forest came alive with the sounds of chirping crickets, rustling leaves, and the gentle calls of various animals. Yet amidst this natural symphony, every creature paused to listen to the soft hoots of Olivia, who perched high on her favorite branch of the Great Oak.
Olivia was not just any owl; she was regarded as the wisest of all. Animals from miles around would come to her whenever they faced dilemmas or needed direction in their lives. Yet, there was a peculiar behavior observed among the forest dwellers. Whenever a problem arose, they would rush to Olivia, share their woes, and most of the time, despite her advice, they would wander off into the woods, ignoring her words.
One serene evening, a squirrel named Sammy approached Olivia with wide, worried eyes. “Oh dear Olivia,” he chattered, “I’ve hidden all my acorns, but now I can’t recall all the places I’ve buried them. What should I do?”
“Dear Sammy,” hooted Olivia knowingly, “why not make a map of the places where you have stored them? Then you can find them easily.”
However, the squirrel merely twitched his nose and bounded away, muttering, “A map? I’m not an explorer!” Days later, Olivia overheard the same squirrel lamenting as he scurried about, mumbling, “I should have listened to Olivia. Now winter is here, and I haven’t a single acorn to eat!”
Weeks passed, and with each new day, countless animals wandered into Olivia’s grove, unfolding their troublesome tales. A rabbit who feared predation confessed, “My burrow is not deep enough, and I’m ever so frightened with winter coming.” “Dig deeper,” advised Olivia. Yet the rabbit only laughed, darted away, and said, “Dig deeper? It will take ages!” When spring finally arrived, the forest buzzed with news that a furious fox had terrorized the rabbit into the next forest.
On another occasion, a group of chatterbox blue jays flitted over and squawked about the plants in the forest that were wilting and browning. One blue jay screeched, “Is it a drought? What do we do?” An elder member of their group warned, “Shhh! One at a time!” As a contract gardener, Olivia calmly replied, “A hose will be needed every day to restore their green.” The blue jays looked at her in disbelief, coincidentally casting a shadow over newly-formed tiny eyes peeping up from the plants. “You see? It’s a doggone drought!” they cried, and off they flew. The tasks never materialized, proving the wise owl’s point.
Finally, one day, when dusk enveloped the woods, a shivering voice broke the ensuing calm. It was Tilly the turtle, her little legs shaking from the cold. “Oh dear Olivia, the days are growing short and the nights are too cold! I don’t know where to go!”
“Child, go where the flowers bloom, where the bees buzz and the sun glows. You must seek the River Path. There, you will find refuge.”
Indeed, the woodland looked forlorn as a freezing dusk cloaked everything around. In truth, animals should have begun their migrations weeks earlier. All had become urgent, and a mass movement ensued. Many left for warmer places, bidding Olivia a hurried adieu before they disappeared into the gloom.
However, a few animals lagged behind. “Nothing makes me more tired than hauling up my tiny legs,” grumbled Tilly. “For this or any other trouble, it always pays to listen to the word of Fauna,” croaked a nearby toad. But Tilly sorely wanted to believe she had mistaken their wisdom. She spied Lady Tressy, the swan, and darted out of sight.
Shortly thereafter, the forest was blanketed in snow, and a chilling wind blew through its branches. Tilly, who had been unable to bear the prospect of a rigorous swim over the icy expanse, felt confused and frightened. She had watched the woods so long that it seemed as though winter would never arrive. Yet, somehow, she had always believed it would not. Now she was alone, exposed and frightened.
Resolutely, she followed the River Path as best she could, for the tracks she made instantly filled with needle-like crystals that gaily glittered in the moonlight. She soon discovered it was pointless to continue. She nestled herself in her own dry, warm burial place.
“Oh, hoot, hoot, hoot!” Olivia sung triumphantly one evening above the woods. Yes, injustice exists, but that did not prevent Olivia from feeling fulfilled by it at times. New disgraceful things, she declared, must never happen, and she alone was the compass worth listening to. The river-cousins she had lost, she feared, must have lost their senses. Peace reigned and the Wind Spirits soon ceased her howling.
With the fir tree held firmly by the palm of its root pendant from the bough, evergreen cones pointed gracefully to the roost for woodpeckers and his bright-eyed family of featherlings. On the whole she was pleased with the whole avian society, and flitting over to the thick hedgerow stretched from corner to corner around the garden of the ancient dwelling.
Returning, she dropped a twig that she had held firmly by the nape of her foot.
The very first hill or mound she had delayed from across sycamore woods had been imparted after waking up the snow was going to soft and wet. Then she heard definite crackling on the foot slippery track along the garden wall.
Oh, hoot, hoot! Came positions of strange noise along hazy ever-darkening paths. It grew very low.
“Do not disturb the fresh newly avons!”
So the keyhole is not for everyone.
“But no branch or living club,” continued the quelf.
Indeed they were clever at burrowing, this grasshorn. And one’s wings were well concealed.