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The bang of the Green Man’s front door echoed into the inn’s back yard. From his cozy resting place, the wren raised his head and looked about. ‘Is it spring already?’ he asked in a raspy voice. ‘Is that the ice on the river breaking up?’ A cold breeze blew round the little pile of straw bringing with it a few flakes of snow. He shivered and tucked his head back beneath his wing.
‘Good story!’ came his further, muffled comments. ‘I say Owl,’ he said, daring to poke his head out once more. ‘Now, isn’t it your turn for a story in return? Make it a good one . . . ‘bout us birds.’ He tucked his head again beneath his wing, his ears open for Owl’s deep voice to begin.
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