A New Song for Little Bird – Read and Print

By Rachel Dunstan Muller, copyright 2022

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There was once a little brown bird who loved to sing. She sang in the morning as the sun was rising. She sang in the evening as night was falling. She sang whenever she could! But one morning when she woke up, she heard a new bird, singing a song she’d never heard before. It was a very pretty song, much prettier than her own little song – at least that’s what the little brown bird believed.

“My song isn’t special,” little bird said to herself. “It’s just a plain little song. I need a new song.”

Now, it just so happened that there was an owl living in the same tree as the little brown bird. And since everyone knows that owls are very wise, the little brown bird went to see the owl first.

“Hello Owl,” said the little brown bird. “I’m looking for a new song. A special song. One no other little brown bird has ever sung before. Do you know where I could find one?”

“I think your song is special,” said the wise owl. “But if you’re looking for a new one, I’ve always liked the song that the wind makes as it moves through the trees. Listen, little bird. The wind is singing right now.”

So little bird listened. And it did sound almost like a song, the way the wind blew the trees’ branches back and forth and made the trees’ leaves whisper to each other. It was pretty – both to hear and to see. But it wasn’t a song a little bird could sing.

So little bird spoke to the wind. “Wind, you have a very pretty song. I’m looking for a pretty song too. Do you know where I might find one?”

“Hmm,” said the wind. “I’m never in one place very long. But I do like the song the little stream sings as it flows over the rocks. Listen – it’s singing right now.”

So little bird listened. And again, it did sound almost like a song, the way the water burbled and rippled and splashed. It was very pretty – and very peaceful – but it wasn’t a song a little bird could sing.

So little bird went and spoke to the stream. “Stream, you sing a very pretty song as you flow over the rocks. I’m looking for a pretty song too. Do you know where I might find one?”

“Oh, yes,” said the little stream. “My favourite song is the song the children make as they laugh and play beside me. Listen, they’re singing now.”

It was true – there were two children playing beside the pond, and they were laughing and calling out to each other. It wasn’t a song, exactly – but they were making a very joyful noise. But it wasn’t something a little bird could sing.

So little bird spoke to the children. “I’m looking for a new song. A special song – one no little bird has ever sung before. Do you know where I could find one?”

The two children looked at each other – and smiled. “That’s easy,” said the first child. “Our mother sings the best songs in the world.”

“It’s true,” said the second child. “If you come to our house at bedtime, you’ll hear her sing us a lullaby.”

So little bird waited until sundown, and then she perched herself on a branch just outside the children’s bedroom. As she listened, the children’s mother tucked them under the covers, and then she began to sing. She sang about the moon, and the stars, and a little ship with a silver lantern. She sang about birds in their nests, and rabbits in their dens, and children in their warm, soft beds. Oh – it was very pretty – the prettiest song the little bird had ever heard.

“I’ll never sing a song like that,” said little bird, when the lullaby was over. And very sadly, she flew back to her own tree.

As the sun was rising the next morning, the little bird stayed silent. She didn’t want to sing her plain little song. She stayed in her nest all that morning and all that afternoon, with her head tucked under her wing.

But then she heard a voice – a woman’s voice – calling to her. “Little bird; little bird – where are you?” 

It was the children’s mother, and she was walking towards the little bird’s tree.

“I’m up here,” said little bird – peeking down from her nest.

“Oh, thank goodness,” said the woman. “I haven’t heard you sing today, and I was worried.”

“My little song is so plain; I didn’t want to sing,” said little bird.

“Oh, little bird,” said the woman. “I love your song. I listen for it every morning as I’m waking up, and every evening as I’m getting ready for bed. It keeps me company while I pull weeds in the garden, and while I hang clothes on the line. My day wouldn’t be the same without your happy little song. Please don’t stop singing.”

As little bird listened to the woman’s words, she felt something swell inside her chest. It was her song, rising up inside her, eager to be free. And as little bird opened her beak and began to sing, she realized, that her little song was special after all. It was a happy song – a joyful song – one that belonged with all the other songs of the forest – with the other birds, and the wind and the stream. Together all those voices made a music that was as beautiful as anything little bird had ever heard.

Little bird still likes to sing. If you take a walk in the forest, you just might hear her. She sings in the morning when the sun is rising; she sings in the evening as the night is falling. And she sings in between – whenever she can.

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