Читать книгу: «The Meadow’s Gentle Tales»

© Alex Chekhanovski, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0065-4055-2

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

1. Squeaky the Squirrel and the Forgotten Nuts

Deep within the heart of the Whispering Woods, where ancient trees stretched their gnarled branches towards the sky and sunlight dappled through the leaves like golden coins, lived a squirrel named Squeaky. Squeaky was not just any squirrel; she was a whirlwind of energy and enthusiasm, a tiny ball of fluff with a tail as magnificent as a feathery plume. Her bright, beady eyes were always darting about, and her tiny claws were ever-ready to grasp a tasty morsel. When autumn painted the forest in hues of red, gold, and brown, Squeaky became the most diligent nut gatherer in all the woods. She would leap from branch to branch with astonishing agility, her little body a blur of motion, stuffing acorns, walnuts, and hazelnuts into her cheeks until they bulged like miniature, lopsided balloons. Then, with a swift, graceful descent, she’d scamper back to the forest floor, her whiskers twitching like the antennae of a curious insect, searching for the perfect spot to bury her treasures. The problem was, Squeaky had a habit as peculiar as it was troublesome: she couldn’t, for the life of her, remember where she buried her nuts! She would dig dozens of tiny holes, sometimes right next to each other, and then, as if a mischievous forest sprite had wiped her memory clean, she would scamper away, leaving behind a confusing patchwork of mounds and tiny pits. When winter’s chill began to creep into the air and a thin layer of frost painted the forest floor white, Squeaky would spend frantic hours sniffing around, digging and scrabbling, her little heart sinking each time she came up empty-pawed. Her hoard, so diligently gathered, seemed to have vanished as if by magic, leaving her with a growing feeling of worry that nibbled at her just as much as the cold. One particularly chilly afternoon, as Squeaky was desperately searching for a hidden walnut, her tiny paws scratching at the frozen ground, she bumped into a wise old owl perched on a sturdy branch overhead. The owl’s eyes, as round and yellow as the moon, blinked slowly as he regarded the distressed squirrel. “Hoo-hoo,” he hooted softly, his voice as gentle as a summer breeze, “you seem a bit flustered, little Squeaky.”

Squeaky sighed deeply, her tiny shoulders slumping. “Oh, Mr. Owl,” she chirped sadly, “I can’t find any of the nuts I buried! I spent the whole autumn gathering them, and now they’re all gone. I’m going to have nothing to eat when winter comes, and I don’t know what I am going to do.” A tear, as bright as a dewdrop, glistened in her eye. The owl chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made the leaves on the branch above tremble. “Hoo-hoo, perhaps what you need, little one, is a map. A way to remember the special places you left your treasures.” The old owl’s wise words hung in the air, suddenly creating a tiny spark of hope within Squeaky’s heart. A map? That sounded like a brilliant idea, thought Squeaky. Why hadn’t she ever thought of that before? So, she gathered some fallen twigs, some brightly coloured berries, and a large leaf, which she would use as her canvas. She carefully arranged these items on a patch of moss and set to work. For each place where she buried her nuts, Squeaky drew a little picture. She drew a tiny oak leaf for the spot under the old oak tree, a round pebble for the place by the big, grey rock, and a wavy line for the spot near the babbling brook. As the winter months deepened and the snow fell thick and fast, Squeaky didn’t have to rummage around frantically anymore. Her map, carefully stored in a hollow tree, led her straight to her secret hiding spots. She would follow her map, her tail held high with pride, her paws digging out her buried bounty. Because she had been so organised, Squeaky had more than enough nuts for herself, and she was overcome with such happiness that she decided to share her vast hoard with the other animals in the woods who had not been quite as prepared. Her friends were very grateful for her generous kindness. As she watched them enjoy the nuts, Squeaky realised that the best treasures in the world are those that we share.

2. Finn the Fox Who Couldn’t Lie

In a sun-drenched meadow beside the glistening Bluebell River, where wildflowers painted the landscape in a riot of colours and butterflies danced on gentle breezes, lived a young fox named Finn. Finn was a spirited and playful fox, always eager for a new adventure, with a coat of fur the colour of burnt orange and a bushy tail that he carried with pride. His emerald green eyes sparkled with mischief and curiosity. But Finn had a peculiar trait, one that often got him into trouble, but one that always seemed to lead him to the best of places: he simply could not tell a lie. No matter how small or harmless the fib might be, the truth would come tumbling out of his mouth, as unstoppable as a babbling stream, sometimes in the most awkward and unexpected of situations. One bright and sunny morning, Finn was playing with his friends near Mrs. Badger’s meticulously kept garden. The garden was Mrs. Badger’s pride and joy. Every flower, every vegetable, and every piece of fruit was grown with love and care. The air was filled with the sweet aroma of blooming herbs and ripening berries. While chasing Rosie the rabbit around a patch of bright sunflowers, Finn accidentally tripped and, with a loud crash, knocked over a beautiful ceramic pot that sat on a small, wooden stool. The pot, which was painted with a vibrant scene of birds in flight, shattered into pieces, the shards of pottery scattering across the garden path like fallen stars. “Oh no!” exclaimed Finn, his emerald green eyes wide with panic. “It wasn’t me!” whispered Rosie, her nose twitching nervously. “Pretend you didn’t see it! Mrs. Badger will be so angry!” The other young foxes nodded in agreement, their eyes darting towards the direction of the badger’s burrow. But Finn simply couldn’t bring himself to pretend. He looked at the pieces of the pot, and then he looked towards the badger’s burrow, a small tremor of fear running down his spine, but even that fear could not make him lie. “I – I knocked it over,” he confessed, his voice trembling slightly, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Badger. It was an accident.”

At first, the other young foxes teased Finn relentlessly for being so honest. “You’ll never get away with anything!” they giggled, their tails swishing with amusement. But as the days turned into weeks, the animals of the meadow began to realise that Finn’s unwavering honesty was something special. If they wanted to know the truth about something, if they were in need of a friend who was reliable, they knew they could always turn to Finn. They knew he would never lie to them. He was like a beacon of truth in a world sometimes clouded by fibs and half-truths. One day, a mischievous raccoon who was known for his tall tales started spreading stories about a hidden treasure buried beneath an ancient oak tree at the edge of the meadow. The animals, always eager for a new and exciting adventure, were quickly captivated by the rumour. But just as they began to prepare an expedition to the oak tree, they decided to ask Finn if he thought it was true. Finn listened carefully, and then, with a shake of his head, told them, “It isn’t true at all, I heard the raccoon making it up. He just wanted to play a prank.” Because they trusted Finn, they decided not to go searching for the treasure. Instead, the animals were able to avoid the trick, and they trusted Finn even more than before. From that day on, Finn the fox, who simply couldn’t lie, learned that while his honesty might sometimes bring him difficult situations, it always led him to true friendship. He realised that a reputation for honesty was the most precious gift he could give and that in a world sometimes filled with deceit, his truth was something to be proud of.