The Boy Who Spoke to the Birds by Kayla Garrett

Some time in Russia, there lived a merchant and his wife. Their only son was a kind hearted boy called Ivan. This boy loved to listen to the song of a nightingale which the family kept as a pet, or some might say as a prisoner, inside a gilded cage.

“What is the meaning of her song?” he often wondered, “It is so lovely, yet so sad.”

One day, his father heard Ivan asking this question out aloud, and he agreed, “Yes I too long to understand her beautiful music. I would give half my wealth to the one who could teach me the language of the birds.”

His father’s words made a big impression on Ivan.

Not long after this, he was out for a walk in the woods, when the weather became bitter. The rain was trying to turn into snow, but not quite succeeding, and instead fell to earth in large cold drops, plop, plop plop – most unpleasant. In the midst of this downpour, his kean ears caught a flustered sound up in the branches above his head. Little voices were crying out “tweet tweet tweet!” quite pitifully. He looked up and saw a nest where the heads of baby birds were bobbing up and down and crying in the cold rain. Ivan felt most sorry for the tiny creatures. Instead of hurrying home, he climbed up the tree and spread the flaps of his kaftan over the nest to protect the fledglings from the rain. This Kaftan was a coat that his father had given him: it was embroidered with gold thread, and not the sort of garment you would would choose to go climbing trees in. He waited there some time until the mother bird returned. When she saw that the kind boy had saved her young ones from catching chills, she was filled with thanks.

“Young man,” she said in good Russian, “you have done me a service. It so happens that I have magical powers and I can give you a fine reward. Say what you want, and it shall be yours.”

The boy replied, “Gracious bird, as it happens, there is one skill that I would dearly love to posses. Could you please teach me the language of the birds?”

“Most certainly,” replied the mother bird, and they arranged that he should visit her every day for a month and learn the words, the grammar, and the tunes of the birds. Fortunately, the boy had a good ear for music, for birds communicate in song. He learned his lessons well, did his homework, and by the end of a month could understand everything that the birds told one another.

Soon after this, Ivan sat at home on his usual couch, listening to the nightingale in his gilded cage. Now he understood the meaning of the beautiful bird’s song, and felt overwhelming sad. His parents could not fail to notice his unhappy face, and his mother asked, “Dear Van-ooshka (that was the pet name she used for him), why are fat tears rolling down your cheeks? Are you suffering from a love that is not returned?”

“No mother, I am still too young for love. I have learned the language of birds, and now I understand the meaning of our pet nightingale’s song, and that is why I am so sad.”

His father was intrigued by this and said: “Well, Ivan, tell us the meaning of our beloved bird’s song.”

“He sings, dear father,” said Ivan simply, naively, and foolishly, “that one day Ivan shall be a prince and and his father shall be his servant.”

Ivan’s parents had not been expecting such an insolent speech. They wondered greatly about what had become of their polite young son. Perhaps listening to the birds so much had made him quite bird-brained. Indeed, they no longer trusted him. Not long after that, the boy’s mother made up some warm milk for Ivan, and mixed it with a strong sleeping potion that would be sure to put him under for a sound night’s sleep. When he was completely out, and snoring loudly, his parents carried him down to the shore, and by the light of the moon, they put him into a little boat and pushed him out to sea. They thought that he would drown and nobody would be the wiser.

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