The Tale of the Whistling Woods – USA (Original Version)

In the heart of the Appalachian Mountains, nestled in a small, cozy town surrounded by towering trees and rolling hills, there was a place known to the locals as the Whistling Woods. The woods were named for the curious sounds that would echo through the trees as the wind blew—a melody as soft and sweet as a lullaby.

Children in the town loved to visit the edge of the Whistling Woods, especially young Clara and her brother Tommy. Their grandmother often told them stories about the woods, saying they were home to all sorts of magical creatures. “Listen carefully,” she would say, “and you might hear the trees sing.”

One sunny afternoon, Clara and Tommy decided to explore the woods while their grandmother napped. They packed a small picnic and set off, promising to stay close to the path. As they walked deeper into the woods, the gentle whistling grew more distinct, weaving a song that seemed to lead them onward.

“Do you hear that, Clara?” Tommy asked, his eyes wide with wonder.

Clara nodded, enchanted by the sound. “It’s like the forest is talking to us,” she whispered.

The siblings followed the melody, which led them to a small, hidden clearing. In the center stood a great ancient oak, its branches twisting and turning like arms reaching out for a hug. Beneath the oak lay a circle of smooth, flat stones, and upon them sat a tiny wooden flute.

Curious, Tommy picked up the flute and examined it. “Do you think it belongs to someone?” he wondered aloud.

Clara shrugged, but her eyes sparkled with excitement. “Why don’t you try playing it?” she suggested.

Tommy hesitated, then lifted the flute to his lips and played a tentative note. To their amazement, the flute responded with a series of soft, magical notes that blended perfectly with the whistling wind. The trees around them seemed to sway in time with the music, and small woodland creatures peeked out from their hiding places to listen.

As the final note faded, a tiny, gentle voice spoke from the branches above. “Thank you for playing my song,” it said.

Startled, Clara and Tommy looked up to see a small, glowing figure nestled among the leaves—a forest sprite, its wings shimmering in the dappled sunlight.

“Who are you?” Clara asked, her voice filled with awe.

“I am the guardian of these woods,” the sprite replied, “and the flute is my gift to those who respect the forest. You have both shown kindness and curiosity, and for that, I thank you.”

The sprite explained that the Whistling Woods’ song was a gift meant to bring peace and happiness to those who listened. It promised to guide them safely back to their grandmother’s house, so long as they promised to always protect the forest.

Clara and Tommy nodded eagerly, their hearts full of the magic and wonder of the Whistling Woods. With the sprite’s guidance, they retraced their steps, the melody of the flute echoing softly in their ears.

From that day on, Clara and Tommy often visited the edge of the Whistling Woods, always leaving a small token of gratitude—a flower, a pebble, a song. And though they never saw the sprite again, they knew the magic of the woods was always with them, as long as the wind whistled through the trees.

The End.