Orla Hears the Hollow Log — Between the cedar trunks, Orla followed a whistle no longer than a pine needle. It slipped ahead of her—peep, pause, peep—through fern curls silvered with morning dew. Read the full story →
Between the cedar trunks, Orla followed a whistle no longer than a pine needle. It slipped ahead of her—peep, pause, peep—through fern curls silvered with morning dew. She lifted her feathered tail so it would not brush the wet leaves and breathed in bark dust, mushroom shade, and the sharp green smell of new shoots. The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once, so she leaped over the cracked old log in the trail to hear it better.
At the top of her jump, the whistle changed. It came from under her, round and wooden, humming through the hollow heart of the fallen trunk. Inside, tucked where nobody had thought to look, a tiny spiral shell sat in a knot-hole, catching the breeze and turning it into music.
Orla landed softly. She did not take the shell. She nudged aside one fern so the wind could reach it, and the cedar woods answered with peep, pause, peep. If you follow her raised claws and the long log below them, can you spot the secret place where curiosity ran away with her?
