The Tailor Fowl and the Dove

o

In a lavish green woodland settled between brilliant slopes and a shimmering stream, lived a small tailor fowl named Tika. She was known all through the woodland not fair for her pleasant chirps

sewing skills.

One spring morning, as Tika was gathering silk strings from insect networks, she listened a delicate cry from the canopy over. Inquisitive and concerned, she rippled up and found a white dove tangled in a prickly vine. Her quills were scratched, and her wing was harmed. Tika carefully unwound the dove and made a difference her down.

“Thank you,” whispered the dove, her voice like wind over water. “I’m Luma. I was flying domestic from the north when the storm caught me.”

Tika grinned warmly. “You’re secure presently. Let me offer assistance you heal.”

Day by day, the tailor fowl tended to Luma’s wounds. She sewed a minor sling of greenery to bolster her wing and encouraged her sweet berries and dewdrops. In return, Luma shared stories of far off lands—the frosty lakes of the north, mountains that kissed the stars, and areas of blooms that gleamed beneath moonlight.

As the weeks passed, the two got to be near companions. Tika, who had never cleared out the timberland, imagined of seeing the world. “Do you think,” she inquired one sundown, “a feathered creature as little as me may ever fly that far?”

Luma’s eyes shimmered. “You may be little, Tika, but your boldness is terrific. When I am mended, let us fly together.”

Spring liquefied into summer, and Luma's wing developed solid. On the morning of her takeoff, the timberland accumulated to say farewell. Tika stood with her handbag of sewn supplies, heart beating like a drum.

The wind blew delicately as they took off. The timberland developed littler underneath them, and for the to begin with time, Tika saw the world from the sky. They taken off over streams that gleamed like mirrors, past mountains cloaked in fog, and through clouds painted by the setting sun.

But On the 3rd day, a amazimg tempest rolled in. Thunder snarled, and lightning split the sky. The wind hurled them like clears out. Luma, greater and more grounded, attempted to shield Tika, but the minor feathered creature was flung absent, misplaced in the dark.

When Tika stirred, she was alone on a rough cliff. Rain pelted down, and her wing throbbed. But she didn’t cry. She sewed a cover from the expansive clears out adjacent and waited.

The another time, through the gray smog, came a mainstream frame. Luma had returned, wings drenched but eyes shinning. “I told you,” she said, embracing Tika with her wings, “we fly together.”

From at that point on, the tailor fowl and the dove got to be legends of the skies—two companions who demonstrated that indeed the littlest heart can hold the most out of control dreams. wherever they flew, Tika cleared out behind modest sewed takes off, signs of ponder sewed into the world.