Crow and the Missing Tree: A Story for Kids

This is Ria. Welcome to Little Stories for Tiny People. Lizards, they're interesting, right? With their heat lamps and their bored expressions. Well, you're in for a treat because... Um, hello? Pardon me? Is someone... Oh! Oh, yes, you're in the right place! Come in. Take a seat. Or a perch. Whichever. Yeah, that's fine. You can just move that clock out of the way. This is so exciting. Now, you know how difficult it is to get guests in here. Well, this morning, I decided to try a totally new strategy. I left out a dish containing several shiny objects, in hopes of drawing a certain type of creature into my clutches. I mean, into my studio, as a guest. And voila! It worked! Please welcome Dahlia the Crow. Dahlia, thank you so much for... What's that? A story about a crow? Oh, okay. Of course! I could do that. Let me just toss this lizard story out the window and a look in my filing cabinet. Let's see here. Crow, let's see. Cat, canary, camel. I forgot I had a story about a camel. Hold on. I'm getting there. Chicken, crab. This is it, Crow. I've got a story about a crow. Let's hear it. It's called Crow and the Missing Tree. Take it away, Ari. Remember, there are no pictures. You'll have to imagine the pictures in your mind. You can imagine them however you want. Okay, here we go. Crow couldn't wait to get home to his tree. He'd been on an extended visit to see his sister's family, whom he loved dearly. But even if you're away on a trip to a wonderful place with your favorite crows, there comes a time when home calls to you and draws you back. That's what Crow was feeling as he flew above the trees with the autumn wind against his feathers. The sky was bright and clear. The warm sun took the edge off the chill in the air. The trees below were adorned with many colors, replacing the shades of green they'd been when Crow had left for his trip. As he flew, he passed the time thinking of all the things he looked forward to doing at home, sleeping with his head against his plush feather pillow in the split between two branches, visiting the old hollowed out log near his home that had become a home to innumerable small creatures, the kinds Crow liked to eat. That log was like a secret buffet. He seemed to be the only bird who had found it. And of course, as he soared over the trees on that beautiful autumn day, Crow thought of his most prized possession, a gift he'd received years ago. He was always torn as to whether to bring it with him when he left on trips. Indeed, he had strongly considered bringing it on the trip from which he was now returning. But what if he lost it, dropped it while he flew? That would be no good. Can't have that, he had told himself. So he'd hung it up on its little hook, where it served as the only reminder of a long ago friend. Crow navigated over a lofty branch and was struck with a familiar thought, one that visited him every time he left his tree for a spell. What if, what if my long ago friend came back while I was away? Crow shook his head. If it hasn't happened in five whole years, then Crow pushed the thought away and smiled, remembering the special treat he'd hidden away for himself in a small hollow of his tree's trunk. He'd had this splendid thought the week before his trip. What if, since he knew he'd be homesick by the end of his time away, what if he planned something to brighten his return even further? So that as soon as he landed, after such a tiring journey, there would be something delightful to greet him. Crow had been impressed with himself for dreaming up this idea. He'd never considered doing such a thing before, but he followed through on it. He went to the forest market and traded a pouch filled with mosquitoes for a pouch of candied beetles. He did love candied beetles, though he only ate them now and then as an occasional treat. And wasn't this the perfect occasion for a comforting treat? Now, at the end of his journey, as Crow descended below the trees, he chuckled and sent a silent thank you to his former self from three weeks ago for hiding that pouch of candied beetles. He could nearly taste them. What a perfect way to return home. Crow landed on the forest floor and stared at a very familiar spot on the ground, a spot that had, last he'd checked, been the precise location of the tree where he'd lived for six years, the one he had moved to directly after leaving his childhood home, the one he dearly loved. It had been right here, in this spot, a spot that now held a jagged stump. I'm in the wrong place. I'm confused. I've taken a wrong turn somehow. Three weeks is a long time to be away. I mixed up is all. Those were the first thoughts that flitted through Crow's mind as he scanned the area, hoping to find that he had lost his mind instead of his tree. Oaks and maple trees towered here and there, saplings of different sorts, filled in every empty spot not taken by shrubs, ferns, wild lettuces, brambles, all of it, the whole scene, upsettingly familiar. Crow forced himself to look again at the stump and he thought briefly of his parents. Every time they visited, they went to the wrong tree. The last time they'd come, they'd even gone to a completely different, completely bewildered Crow's tree, halfway across the forest. Our eyes aren't what they used to be, dear. All the trees here look the same. Crow had never understood it. The trees did not at all look the same, especially not his tree. His was the only tree with a face. You see, Crow's tree had a very distinctive burl on its side. The burl was a large, round outgrowth on its trunk. It made it look like the tree had a nose. Crow loved that burl and it stuck out enough that Crow could perch on it whenever he wanted a commanding view of the forest. No, Crow's tree did not look like the others and it was unbelievably startlingly gone. All that remained was the stump. Crow hopped around the area, still in disbelief, and gave start when he spied something bright blue, half covered by a leaf. My teacup. Crow clutched it to his chest, breathing hard as if he'd just finished a race. Sifting through more leaves, he uncovered one of the knights from his chest set. He'd whittled it himself. Next, he found his knapsack, handy at the moment, given that he had an increasing number of items to carry. Soon, he'd collected a wooden spoon given to him by his father. A clock he'd purchased from the market last year. Now broken, its hour hand bent in the middle. And a frog figurine he'd won in a raffle at the local forest arts festival. Crow stood with his laden knapsack several feet from the stump amidst a great copse of trees surrounded by brambles and ferns and all kinds of leafy foliage. The autumn sun warmed his back. He'd found plenty of his belongings. Hence, that he'd lived a life in that spot. But he had not found his tree. He had not found his burl. He had not found his home. And there was something else he desperately wished to find. The one possession that had been attached to his tree on its little hook beside the burl. The smooth leather and metal keychain. He so loved. It was just a keychain. It didn't even have a key on it. What use would a crow have for a keychain at all, let alone one without a key? To understand what this object meant to him, we'll have to go back, briefly, to how he acquired it in the first place. It was five years ago on a bright morning in the last days of summer when the afternoons were warm and the nights were cool that a boy appeared in the forest. The forest where crow lived was remote and people were a rare sight. Drawn by the sound of the boy's footsteps, crow watched with fascination as he built himself a lean-to, made a fire, carved a spoon, and cooked himself something in a tin can. The first day, crow kept his distance. And he would have kept doing that, except on day two, the boy spoke to him. He wanted something to eat. The sound of his voice startled crow, sent a shiver down his feathers. He'd been standing on the ground observing the boy, with absolutely no idea that the boy was also observing him. Crow froze in place, unsure whether to fly off, until the boy set something on the ground between them. Take it, it's a cracker. Crow accepted the offering, plucking it rapidly from the ground, as if this whole thing might be an elaborate trap. The cracker was crispy, delicious. Nothing jumped out at crow as he nibbled it. The boy, grinned. After finishing the cracker, crow immediately flew to his tree and went to the hollow where he kept found treasures. He sifted through the little stash, passing over bottle caps and pebbles. Weeks ago, he had taken something near a deserted campsite. He hesitated when he uncovered it. After all, it was his new favorite treasure. But it's just an object, and the boy will like it. Crow grasped it up with his foot, flew back to the lean to. He deposited the item on the ground at the boy's feet. The boy stared at it for a moment, then smiled and picked it up, turning it over in his palm. A matchbook. Hey, thanks. Seeing the boy's smile at such a small gesture, evaporated any reluctance Crow harbored about giving it away. Crow loitered around the boy's campsite the rest of that day, then remained all night perched in an unfamiliar tree, keeping watch, suddenly protective of this former stranger. The following morning, Crow awoke to see the boy passing under the tree where Crow had slept, carrying water in a pouch. It was a chilly morning, and Crow fluttered down by the boy's fire. He spent the day observing his new acquaintance. He'd never been so close to a person before, had never had a front row seat to the odd things people did. The boy poured his water into a pot and cooked it over the fire, which seemed like a tremendous waste of time. Then the boy went to the river and Crow observed him catch a fish with a fascinating contraption. He gave some of the fish to Crow. In the afternoon, after the boy had carved another spoon, he set it down beside him and looked squarely at Crow. We've got something in common, the boy said, his voice filled with authority. Crow cocked his head, intrigued. The boy held out his right forearm, displaying a prominent scar and nodded at Crow's foot. Crow glanced down at the white mark he'd had since his birth. It was bright against the black of his foot. Huh, Crow had never thought much about the mark. When he was young, other Crows always noticed it and commented on it and occasionally pecked at it. As he grew older, no one cared much, neither did he. He was certainly never glad to have it until that very moment. At dusk that evening, the boy and the Crow watched the sun set over the forest. Before he went into his lean to the boy said, I want you to have something. No, Crow thought, but couldn't say, you've done enough already. The boy fished something out of his pocket, a leather and metal key chain. He swiftly removed the key and returned it to his pocket, then laid the key chain at Crow's feet. I can't accept this, Crow thought, but the boy bid him good night and retired to his lean to without another word. The night air was cold and Crow wondered how the boy would manage. He took the key chain and perched in a tree overlooking the campsite. I'll go out first thing in the morning to find him a gift. Crow told himself, yawning. He fell asleep on the branch. When he awoke, late after dawn, the lean to was gone. So was the boy. Crow paced around the stump with his thoughts in a tangle, then stepped on something that drew his attention downward, a small burlap pouch. He lifted it with a foot, already knowing what it contained. Crow was hungry. He'd been traveling for hours, but as he crunched on a candied beetle, he felt emptier than ever. Back when he'd hidden them away, Crow had imagined nibbling the beetle's wall perched on his burl, staring out at the great forest. Instead, he was alone, beside a stump staring up at the blue autumn sky. I've got to find my tree, Crow whispered, and my key chain along with it. He swung his knapsack over his wings and set off to do just that. By midday, Crow had interviewed countless creatures in the surrounding area, but his interviews had yielded nothing, but scattered pieces of useless information. You know, I saw a tree that sounds exactly like what you've described. Really? Oh yes, it had a large round burl on its side, lovely leaves, the color of my grandmother's favorite tea. Oh, and I do believe it had something dangling from a hook. That's, that's my tree. When did you see it? Where? About a month ago. It was not far from here, growing straight out of the ground. A month ago? Yes, that's my tree, all right. Only, well, do you have any idea where it might be now? Now? Oh no. So Crow decided to take a more strategic approach. First, he hired a tree expert to inspect the stump. It's freshly cut, all right. Is it? I was gone for three weeks. I didn't know if, no, no, Phineas Beaver said, crouching down to peer at the stump. Can't prove it, of course, but I'd say it was chopped down no more than three days ago. Three days, Crow repeated. Hope lifted in his chest, could still be nearby. He murmured, it's probably very close. Couldn't have gone far, not with a single person dragging it. Crow gave Phineas a questioning look, and the beaver pointed at the ground. Tracks? Tracks, all right. I see a single set of footprints, and that. You see that? That's the tree itself being dragged. Tell me more. Phineas Beaver stood up and hooked his paws beneath his suspenders. I know trees, not tracks. For that, you'll need Martha. All right. Oh, there's a lot here. Oh, this is good. See that indentation there? Martha, Phineas told Crow, was a small, bright, white albino weasel with pink eyes and a cheerful enthusiasm she carried around with her like a sunny balloon. At the beaver's recommendation, Crow found her near the river in late afternoon chasing a mouse. Come here, you little fella. I have a cooking pot with your name on it. But once she heard Crow needed help tracking, she stopped everything to help. It's so fun to solve a mystery, isn't it? Now, the weasel pointed at some marks on the ground that Crow could not see. The sky, tree branches, worms on the ground. These were all things he was very good at paying attention to and examining. Footprints, marks on the earth, not so much. Okay, okay. She called, racing away from Crow. Come this way. I'm hot on the trail. Crow brightened and followed her, feeling his hopes inflate further. He pictured her leading him to his tree, upright, leaning against something solid, with his burl intact and his key chain catching the golden hour light. But after several minutes of trekking through the woods, the weasel stopped short and began pacing in a tight circle. Oh boy. Hmm. Don't know what to do now. Really wish Martha were here. Crow's eyes widened. You're not Martha? Me? Martha? Oh, that's such a compliment. But Phineas Beaver told me Martha was an albino weasel. Oh, she is. We have that in common. It's very rare. No, no, I'm Felicity. I'm her apprentice. New apprentice. I just love tracking. But I'm, well, I'm not very experienced at it yet. You'd really want Martha for that. All right. But she's away on a family trip. Martha always says family comes first. I love it about her. It's great to work for such a generous boss. Anyway, Felicity said, putting her paws in her hips and swiveling around to look at the ground. I do wish you were here because these tracks have gotten faint in the rocky ground with those recent rains. Plus we've got these leaves that have fallen and their deer tracks running through this whole area. What were they having a party? Felicity shook her head and sighed. Besides with night falling, she said trailing off. She looked up at Crow with an expression that was somehow both solemn and cheerful. I'm afraid this is as far as I can take you, Mr. Crow. Crow spent the night in a tree that was not his own overlooking the spot. Where the trail had gone cold. The night went cold too. And a vicious wind whipped through the forest, sending crisp fallen leaves swirling in the air. Crow hardly slept. He was more homesick than ever. All he could think about was finding the two things he missed most, his tree and his key chain. He found one of them in the morning. There, on a rock once covered with leaves, winking up at him in the morning sun, was his key chain. You might have thought Crow would have immediately swooped down and grabbed his precious possession, but he was struck, unable to move, because he knew what this meant. His tree had not just been picked up and moved. His tree was not hanging out somewhere, casually leaning against something solid. The key chain had fallen off its hook, and not just from some light jostling. The knowledge of this passed over his mind, like a cloud passing in front of the sun. And when the shock was over, Crow swooped down. He grasped the key chain in a foot, and went to take flight once more. To where he knew not. When he heard, Oh, please don't take it. The voice Crow learned belonged to a small, wide-eyed shrew by the name of Nancy. Yes, her name was Nancy Shrew. She'd found the key chain just that morning, as she'd been foraging for grasshoppers nearby. She had already made detailed plans for it. It will be a gift for my son. He's, he's, he's leaving the borough. Excuse me, it's just where did the time go? Crow scowled. Why did this shrew have to be so sweet? If only she'd been mean, he might have simply flown away with the key chain. Anyway, the shrew went on through sniffles. I'm planning to give it to him. It's the perfect thing to make a new borough feel like home. The word hit Crow like a walnut to the chest. Home. Couldn't quite believe it when I saw it on the ground beside the cabin. I watched that man build it all yesterday and the day before in between catching ants, which were plentiful in the area, trying to get at his food, I suppose. Crow narrowed his eyes and blinked rapidly. Cabin? And in an instant, he knew, where is it? Where is this cabin you saw man build? It's just over. Nancy Shrew stopped thinking. I'll tell you, she said carefully, if you give me back that gift for my son. Crow looked down at the key chain tight in his grip. It was his only remnant of his long ago friend. The boy, Crow thought, who had himself given it up so easily, had given it to Crow as a gift that had once made his tree feel like home. Crow laid the key chain at Nancy Shrew's feet. He had to see what had become of his tree. He had to see the cabin. The cabin was precisely where Nancy said it would be. Just over the hill, beyond the tallest pines. It wasn't far. Rustic was a generous term for it. It was big enough for a single occupant. And even then, the man had to stoop when he passed through the front door. Yes, the man was there too. A tall young man with a faint beard and glasses smudged from a day of real work. He had a fire going inside a ring of rocks. When Crow arrived, landing on a tree branch to observe, the man was adding material to the roof. Crow would have held out hope this cabin was not his tree, except the segment of the trunk with the burl had been cut out and set aside. His high perch of many years rested on the ground. His burl, his key chain, his tree, his hold on. Crow blinked rapidly. Can't be. The man was finishing up his work on the roof and was headed to the fire, to which he added a freshly split log. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. On his right arm was a prominent scar. Crow remained by his tree, which was now the small cabin built by the boy who was now a man. He paced on the ground. He observed. This time, he waited for the man to return the favor. It took an hour, but he did. At first, he tossed Crow a few seeds. Crow did not like them. They were not seeds of the forest. It didn't matter. Crow crept closer, within a few feet, while the man carved a spoon in the late afternoon. Finally, the man stopped and looked squarely at Crow, and he looked at Crow's foot, the one with the birthmark, and he said, It can't be. But it was. The following day, after sleeping with one eye open in a nearby tree, Crow watched the man take the burl wood from its resting spot and work on it for several hours. He cut it and shaped it and carved it. Burl wood is known for its beauty. When he was done, the man nailed his creation to the cabin beside the door as a perch for his friend, Crow. Crow settled onto his new perch and looked out at the beautiful forest. It was the first time, since he'd returned from his trip, that he felt a sense of home. So, Dahlia, what did you think of the story? Hmm, right. Okay. Interesting. Really? Well, I'm not sure that's entirely fair, but uh-huh. Dahlia had mixed feelings about the story. She thought it was heartwarming, but she thought I took too many creative liberties with regards to Crow behavior. For instance, she tells me Crow's sleep in groups in trees. They do not live by their lonesome. You know what? I am very grateful for this feedback. Dahlia, the next time I write a Crow-focused story, I will consult you on the facts. Well, I hope you enjoyed the story, despite its shortcomings. Little stories for tiny people is written, performed, and produced by me, Rhea Pector. My in-house tech director, Peter Kay, runs my website and puts my stories on the internet for all of you to enjoy. Thank you to my Little Stories premium subscribers for making it possible for me to keep sharing my stories with families around the world. Thank you to Ari for the super important reminder message at the beginning, and thank you, as always, for listening in.