Long ago, in the rugged mountain valleys of Epirus, there lived a poor woodcutter who earned his living by felling trees and selling firewood in the village market. Each day, he rose before dawn, took up his worn axe, and set out into the forest, where the birds sang among the cypress and the wind whispered through the pines. Though his life was hard, his heart was gentle and his spirit kind.
One morning, as the sun climbed over the ridges and the mist still clung to the grass, the woodcutter heard a faint cry from a nearby bush. Peering closer, he found a small nightingale, trembling and helpless, fallen from its nest. Its wing was bent, and it fluttered in vain to fly. Moved by pity, the man cupped the bird carefully in his rough hands and carried it home.
For many days he cared for it tenderly, feeding it crumbs and drops of water, sheltering it from wind and rain. Slowly the little creature regained its strength. One evening, when the stars had begun to shine and the night air was filled with the scent of thyme and wild basil, the nightingale hopped onto the windowsill and began to sing. Its song was pure and clear, so sweet that the woodcutter felt tears rise to his eyes.
When the song ended, the nightingale spoke in a voice as soft as the wind through the reeds.
“Good man,” it said, “for your kindness, I will grant you a gift no one else possesses. From this day forward, you shall understand the language of the birds. But take heed, if you ever reveal this secret to another soul, death will come to you at once.”
Before the astonished woodcutter could reply, the bird spread its wings and flew into the forest, its song echoing faintly in the night.
From that day on, the woodcutter noticed the world anew. When he entered the forest, he no longer heard meaningless chirps and calls, instead, he heard voices full of sense and feeling. The sparrows chattered of rain, the owls spoke of coming cold, and the crows told tales of men and beasts. Soon he learned much from their talk. When the swallows warned that a storm was near, he stayed home and kept dry. When the magpies whispered of wolves in the valley, he took another path and was spared.
One afternoon, weary from chopping wood, he lay down beneath a great plane tree to rest. Above him two doves perched on a branch, cooing softly. Because of his gift, he could understand every word.
“Tomorrow,” said one dove, “the king’s treasure will be carried across the river. Whoever stands upon the bridge at dawn shall find a fortune.”
The other dove cooed in wonder. “And will no one guard it?”
“The river itself will take what is fated,” replied the first, “for even kings cannot rule over chance.”
The woodcutter’s heart quickened. The next morning, before the sky had turned pale, he went to the river bridge. As the doves had said, the royal wagons came rumbling across. The horses strained against their harnesses, and one wheel struck a stone. With a loud crack, a golden casket tumbled into the water and was swept downstream.
Quick as thought, the woodcutter leaped into the shallows and dragged it to the bank. When he opened it, he gasped. Inside were jewels that gleamed like frozen fire. Remembering the birds’ words, he carried it home quietly.
With that treasure he bought a small house, good clothes, and enough food to last a lifetime. No longer did he toil from dawn to dusk, yet he never forgot the nightingale’s warning. He kept his secret close to his heart.
But happiness seldom stays untested. His wife, seeing their sudden fortune, grew restless and suspicious. “Tell me,” she said one evening, “how did you come by this wealth? You were poor as the stones, and now you live like a lord. Did you steal it? Did some spirit give it to you?”
The woodcutter shook his head. “Ask me no more, my dear. What I know, I cannot tell.”
Her curiosity only deepened. “You do not trust me, your own wife?” she cried. “Do you think I would betray you?” She wept and pleaded day after day, until her tears wore at his heart like rain upon stone.
At last, unable to bear her grief, he said, “If I tell you, it will cost me my life.”
But she would not believe him. “No man dies for speaking truth,” she said. “You must tell me.”
So, in sorrow, he took her hand and began to speak. “Once, I found a nightingale”
He never finished. As the first word left his lips, his breath failed. His eyes closed, and he fell lifeless to the floor.
The wife cried out in terror, but it was too late. Outside, the birds of the forest gathered upon the roof and sang their mourning song, a language she could never understand.
Moral Lesson
Wisdom and kindness are blessings, but not all truths are meant to be shared. The power of silence can protect what words may destroy.
Knowledge Check
1. Where does this folktale originate?
It originates from Epirus, a mountainous region in northwestern Greece.
2. What gift did the nightingale give the woodcutter?
The nightingale granted him the power to understand the language of the birds.
3. How did the woodcutter find the king’s treasure?
He overheard two doves speaking about it and went to the river bridge at dawn.
4. What warning did the nightingale give the woodcutter?
That if he ever revealed his secret gift, he would die instantly.
5. Why did the woodcutter tell his wife his secret?
Because her sorrow and pleading overcame his resolve to remain silent.
6. What is the moral of the story?
That some knowledge must remain unspoken, for revealing it can bring destruction.
Source
Adapted from the Greek folktale “The Language of the Birds” in Greek Folk-Songs and Folk-Stories, collected by Lucy M. J. Garnett (1896), London: David Nutt.
Cultural Origin: Greece (Epirus, Northwestern Greece)
