The Crow Who Borrowed the Sun's Voice

In the days when animals still gathered beneath the great oak tree to settle their disputes and share their songs, there lived a Crow whose voice was, by all honest accounts, rather dreadful.

It was not that the Crow was a bad creature. She was clever enough, and industrious, and she kept her feathers reasonably tidy. But whenever she opened her beak to sing, the other animals winced as though someone had dragged a thornbush across a stone floor.

"You screech like a rusty gate," said the Fox, not unkindly.

"You sound like two rocks falling down a hill," offered the Rabbit, who then immediately apologized.

The Crow bore these criticisms with a dignified silence that was, in truth, barely concealing a very deep wound. For what the Crow wanted, more than anything in all the world, was to be listened to. To be heard. To open her beak and have every creature in the meadow turn toward her with shining eyes.

One autumn morning, the Crow flew higher than she had ever flown before, carried upward by a particularly bold current of wind. She flew so high, in fact, that she came very close to where the Sun was making his slow and golden journey across the sky.

"Good morning," said the Crow, surprising herself.

The Sun, who was accustomed to being admired from a great distance but rarely addressed directly, slowed his pace slightly. "Good morning, little Crow," he said, and his voice was warm and round and full, like honey poured into a brass bowl.

"Your voice," said the Crow, forgetting all manners, "is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard."

The Sun smiled, as suns do. "It has had a long time to develop."

"Could I borrow it?" asked the Crow. "Just for one afternoon. There is a gathering beneath the great oak tree, and I should very much like to be listened to for once."

Now, the Sun was not without sympathy. He had watched this particular Crow for a long time, had seen her wince at her own reflection in puddles, had seen her practice scales alone on fence posts when she thought no one was watching. He felt what might be called a soft and golden pity.

"I will lend you my voice," said the Sun, "until the shadows grow long. But hear me carefully: my voice is made for great distances. Use it wisely, and speak only what is true."

The Crow agreed, and when the Sun pressed his warmth briefly against her throat, she felt something open inside her like a door onto a summer field.

She dove back down to the earth.

When the Crow arrived at the gathering beneath the great oak tree, she cleared her throat and said simply, "Good afternoon."

Every head turned. Every ear pricked forward. The sound that came from the Crow's beak was warm and round and golden, and it seemed to carry with it the faint smell of warm bread and late roses.

"Speak again," said the Ox, who had never paid the Crow any attention before.

And the Crow, intoxicated by this sudden and delicious attention, began to speak. She told them that the northern berry bushes were full, which was true. She told them that the river had changed its course slightly near the bend, which was also true. She told them that the winter would be short this year, which was a guess, and she told them that the Fox had stolen three eggs from the Sparrow's nest last Tuesday, which was something she had seen with her own eyes but had promised herself not to repeat.

The Fox stiffened. The Sparrow gasped. The other animals murmured.

"Who told you this?" demanded the Fox.

"I — I saw it," said the Crow. And the voice she said it in was so warm and golden and certain that every animal believed her absolutely, the way you believe a thing said in full sunlight that you might have doubted in shadow.

The Fox was shamed before the whole gathering. He slunk away without a word.

The Crow felt a sour twist