Pip lived in the hollow of an old apple tree. His home had a round doorway, a bed of soft moss, and a very good view of the sky.
Tonight, however, Pip was looking at his ceiling.
“I can’t find my sleepy feeling,” he told his grandmother.
“Where did you last see it?” she asked.
Pip thought for a moment.
“Near supper. Before I remembered all the things I wanted to do tomorrow.”
Grandmother smiled. She sat beside the doorway and made room under her wing.
“Come and listen with me.”
Pip nestled close. At first, he heard nothing at all.
Then a breeze slipped through the apple leaves.
Shush, shush, shush.
“Is somebody whispering?” Pip asked.
“The leaves are moving,” said Grandmother.
Pip listened again. The breeze went one way, then another. The leaves answered with their little papery voices.
Far below, a beetle walked over a dry twig.
Tick, tick, tick.
“And somebody is tapping!”
“A small neighbor finding his way home.”
Pip leaned forward. The beetle disappeared beneath a leaf. For a moment, the garden was quiet.
Then a drop of water fell from an apple into the birdbath.
Plink.
Pip blinked.
“The night has a lot to say.”
“It does,” said Grandmother. “It usually says it quite softly.”
They listened to the leaves. They listened to the water. From the hedge came the rustle of a hedgehog arranging his blanket of grass.
Pip tried to imagine each little home. The beetle’s leaf. The hedgehog’s nest. His own round room in the apple tree.
“Do you think they have found their sleepy feelings?” he asked.
“Perhaps. Perhaps they’re still listening, too.”
The breeze came back, softer this time.
Shush, shush, shush.
Pip’s eyes closed for a moment. When he opened them, the stars seemed to have become a little blurry around the edges.
“Grandmother,” he whispered, “I think the wind is singing.”
“What is it singing?”
Pip tucked his head against her feathers.
“Nothing with words. Just a song about being home.”
Grandmother carried him the short distance to his mossy bed. She pulled a soft feather blanket over his toes.
The garden was still there beyond the doorway. The beetle was home. The hedgehog was comfortable. The apple leaves moved together in the breeze.
Pip didn’t need to do anything else tonight.
“I found it,” he murmured.
“Your sleepy feeling?”
But Pip had already settled into his dreams.
Outside, the leaves continued their small, gentle song.
