The Cricket and The Tree

Once upon a time there was a cricket, little in comparison to the great trees looming above it, who traversed the winding of a certain bubbling stream.  Every night the cricket would rest from its journey under the safety of a tree and begin the minor notes of a great song of sorrow, for the little cricket had seen many, many sorrowful days. And every night, the tree under which it rest would inquire of it, asking it to sing its tune.  But every night the cricket would insist that no one listen, for the tune was one of altering sorrow. But never did the trees listen, as they were great in comparison to a little lonely cricket.

"Come, little cricket," said a tree; tall, proud, robust and stately.  "Come, little cricket, and sing to me your song I hear faintly when the sun has hid and the curtain of darkness falls.  Come and sing to me the lonely notes the wind blows to me as my branches sway softly to your tune."

"I cannot," said the cricket, "for my song is mine alone, though you overhear but a whisper of my lullaby. It is not to be shared, for it is but my burden to bare, with notes born of the suffering of life and the rawness of misfortune."

But the tree did not pay heed to the little cricket, for it was but a tiny thing in a vast world, and the tree, so robust and stately replied, "Do not be foolish little cricket, for all of creation has heard a sad tune, all of us here have seen the sun and the rain.  You think yourself larger than your fellow creation, that I may not hear in clarity what aspires from your little being?"

"I offer you no disrespect my fine deciduous fellow, but surely if you were to hear with clarity all that my little soul does sing, you will be overcome with sorrow, your branches will droop with the weight of your tears and you will never be the same again; tall and robust, reaching heavenward with your many limbs, for sorrow breaks even the strongest of men and causes them to weep."

"Do you not see how stately I am?" boasted the tree.  Indeed, it was true, for the tree was the tallest of all and kissed the skies more often than all the others.  Many birds took refuge in its confident limbs, and the grass below clapped in appreciation to its ample lot of shade.  "You are but a little cricket, not even bigger than my smallest knothole, yet you think I have not weathered storms akin to the power of your song?  Now sing for me before I call on Mr. Robin to come make a tasty meal out of you, little, little cricket."

"Oh dear," sighed the cricket, for there was no arguing with the tree, so strong and stubborn.  Being eaten for dinner would be but another stanza in the cricket's sorrowful song, and thus with a deep breath, it began to sing.  Slowly the tune lifted from its origin within, mellow and soft as the deep of the sea.  Rising and falling were the notes of the many years, a story not written, only told through song.  The cricket continued, great swellings and decrescendos of seasons gone by, of times less than cheery.  All stopped to listen to the little cricket sing.

And slowly, but surely, the great tree, so robust and stately, absorbed the breath of the cricket and its sad, solemn song.  And slowly, but surely, captured in tune, the great tree bowed closer and closer to the ground to enraptured with all that the cricket sang.  Its branches stopped reaching towards the twinkling stars, and began to bow low as the cricket carried on.  Mesmerized and fraught with deep sorrow, the great tree bent closer and closer and closer to the origin of song.

As the little cricket entered the last phrase, the purity and rawness of life sung in tune caused the tree, so strong and stately, to weep.  And weep did the tree, for the length of the night, sorrow summoned from every  root to burdened branch, all due to the sad song of the little cricket.  Its branches, now bowed low, swayed in the breeze as to wallow in the melancholy of a little cricket's life song.

With a final breath, the cricket's vibrato echoed throughout the night, and all creation did not exhale for fear that the moment, wrought in brilliant purity, would escape for a lifetime and never return.  "There," said the little cricket, "is my sad song.  I warned you of it's sorrow, but you would not listen.  And now you have been changed, forever changed.  Never will you return to the place you have been, for you cannot undo what has been done."

The tree, still weeping could only sway in response.  Bent over and burdened, the once robust tree began to question the little cricket, "Will, oh, will you please unsing the song that I may stop my weeping?  Will, oh, will you sing but a more cheerful song?"

"I cannot," stated the cricket, "For each cricket is given but one song, and this is the one that was chosen for me."

"Will, oh, will you please, just try?  Will, oh, will you just try to sing a tune to undo the weeping and many misty tears?"

"I cannot," replied the cricket, "Did I not warn you that my song was so filled with sorrow that even strong men fall and are broken by its pain?"

"Indeed you did," said the tree sadly.  "But I thought surely I was strong and robust enough to not let a burden from such a little cricket cast its weight on me in such a way as this.  Will, oh, will you little cricket, remedy my state of being?"

"I cannot" said the cricket, as it began its journey again, headed toward a new destination with yet another sorrowful song to sing.

"Will, oh...."  "Will, oh...." wept the tree, forever changed and surmount with sorrow from the little crickets song.  And thus, "Willow" became the name of the once tall and stately tree.  For it was once too proud to think that sorrow could bring it low, especially from such a small cricket   But the great tree underestimated the power of misfortune.  To this day its ancestors may be found along many a stream, weeping still, as the crickets sing.