By
Bill Conley – America’s Favorite Children’s Storyteller and Author
Moral of the Story:
Curiosity is a spark that leads us to learn. Wondering teaches our minds to
grow bigger. Questions are treasures even before answers arrive. A seeking
heart stays hopeful and excited. A curious child finds magic in discovery. Learning
begins the moment we start asking. Not knowing yet is part of the adventure. Wondering
with joy makes life richer for everyone.
In Winding Willow Woods, where tall
reeds swayed, and tiny streams giggled between mossy stones, lived a thoughtful
little weasel named Whiskers. He was small, quick, clever, and always tilting
his head as though invisible ideas were gently floating past his ears. Whiskers
did many squirrel-like things, gathering berries, chasing shiny beetles,
building tunnels, but what made him special was not his tunnels or his clever
paws.
It was his wondering.
Whiskers wondered about everything.
He would look at the stars and
whisper, “I wonder how they stay glowing up there all night.” He studied acorns
sinking into mud and squeaked softly, “I wonder why round nuts roll but flat
stones do not.” He stood beside things no one could easily explain: clouds
moving without feet, rivers running without getting tired, snowflakes looking
like tiny sky flowers made of ice, and each time his eyes sparkled wider, his
tail twitched faster, because the world felt enormous and exciting when there
were still mysteries swirling inside it.
His parents, Walter and Winnie Weasel,
often exchanged warm, amused smiles when Whiskers began another wondering
speech. They loved that about him, not because the questions always made
sense, not because anyone could answer them right away, but because a curious
mind was a growing mind. A wondering child was a learning child. And a learning
child carried hope into every season.
One golden autumn morning, when the
air tasted like pumpkin spice and leaf-crunch poetry, Whiskers sat in his
family room snuggled beside his mom and dad. He had eaten his oatmeal too fast
(which was not sickness), and he made a tiny moan-face, the classic morning face
children sometimes make, not to say he was sick, but to announce his latest
thought.
“I wonder what happens to all the
questions after we ask them,” he said dramatically, not loudly dramatic like a
fake cold, just theatrical-gentle-curious dramatic, “do they float into the
river, fly into the clouds, or sneak into the stars?”
His father chuckled. “Questions do
not disappear, son,” he said softly. “They travel. They grow. They lead. They
connect us to bigger ideas. A question is like a seed. It lands, it stays, it
stretches roots, and something becomes different inside us afterward.”
Whiskers absorbed this like a
sponge-hearted detective of wonder. He adored the thought that asking changed
people, forests, futures, seasons, even if the final answer was not yet known.
Especially if the answer was not yet known.
The woods grew cold early that year.
The snow whispered threats of a tough winter before anyone expected it. Many
animals hustled frantically, collecting supplies, stacking twigs, preserving
seeds, storing nuts, like hardworking squirrels would, but Whiskers did not
panic, because curiosity had already prepared him for uncertainty. Questions
had taught him patience. Wonder had fed his courage. Amazement had trained his
heart not to quit early when answers were slow.
One evening, the forest council met, all
families invited, no pressure to know anything yet, and the elder beaver said,
“This winter may be harsh, we do not know, but we must prepare steadily, think
together, listen closely, observe kindly, help bravely, and keep wondering, because
discovery solves storms.”
All eyes turned toward Whiskers. The
animals did not expect an answer to the winter. They expected to wonder about the
winter. They expected seed-hearted curiosity, the beauty every child possesses
naturally, the magic of seeking, even when answers are blurred by snow-clouds,
hidden by storm-faces, or unknown as the stars themselves.
Whiskers stepped forward not to
explain winter, no one could explain winter, but to keep wonder alive inside
winter.
“I wonder,” he said warmly, no fear,
“what exciting things we have not learned yet from harsh winters, deep
questions, icy seeds, or snowy friendships. I wonder what stories spring will
bring us after we stay brave when it is boring or cold or unknown for just a
moment.”
A hush moved through the forest, quiet
but deeply moved. It was not about nuts now. It was not about sickness now. It
was about wonder now.
The snow came heavier than any
squirrel-stacked nut-storm they had seen. It was a tough winter, yes, but no
squirrel or weasel or beetle or bird lost heart because questions warmed their
courage first.
Whiskers survived, not because he
had the answers, but because his curiosity had never stopped asking for friends
for forests for seeds or for oatmeal to be eaten more slowly next time.
And the first green leaf of spring
came indeed, unannounced, and everyone whispered gently, “A curious heart beat
the season by refusing to quit early.”
And that is what made him a small hero
in a big winter.
Moral of the Story Poem:
Whiskers the weasel loves to ask
Questions bigger than any task
Wondering if seeds fly far and wide
On stream and cloud and star, they ride
Answers may come slowly or soon
But curiosity hums a tune
A seeking heart stays hopeful and grand
Discovering magic where questions land
Discussion Questions:
1.
Why do you think questions are
important even before we know the answers?
2.
How can curiosity help us stay
patient when we do not know something yet?
3.
What is one thing you wonder about that
makes your heart sparkle a little bigger?
No comments:
Post a Comment