Rilla’s Log Knows Home — Between the creek stones and the ferny bank, Rilla padded with soft step, soft step, looking for a place that sounded like hush. The wind combed dry leaves above her ears. Read the full story →
Between the creek stones and the ferny bank, Rilla padded with soft step, soft step, looking for a place that sounded like hush. The wind combed dry leaves above her ears. A fallen log lay warm from the afternoon sun, striped with smooth ridges and smelling of rain, bark, and old acorns. Rilla climbed up, tucked her nose near her paws, and listened. Tap. Rustle. Sigh. “This one knows how to be quiet,” she whispered.
As her eyes grew heavy, a new sound came from inside the log: plink-plink, gentle as a tiny music box. It was not a beetle or a mouse. Hidden in a hollow where nobody thought to look, a little spring of water was singing under the wood, making the whole log hum. Rilla’s tail curled closer. The creek, the leaves, the secret song, and the warm old log all seemed to make room for her. If you find the curled fox, can you imagine the plink-plink under her paws?
