Fern the fox collected things that nobody else wanted. Buttons, bottle caps, ribbons — her den was full of small treasures. But her favorite collection was one that nobody could see.
Fern collected quiet. Every evening she padded through the forest, just listening. The hush after a woodpecker stops. The pause between two waves on the lake. She kept every quiet safely in her memory.
One evening, the forest was anything but quiet. The squirrel triplets could not settle down to sleep. They chattered and thumped and rattled the whole oak tree.
"Our minds are too loud," they complained to Fern. "The day keeps bouncing around inside our heads." Fern thought about her collection and smiled.
"Close your eyes," she said softly. "I will lend you my quiets." She described the snow-quiet of winter, soft as a blanket. She described the dawn-quiet, when the whole world holds its breath.
As Fern spoke, the triplets’ breathing grew slow and deep. Their busy thoughts curled up like sleepy kits. One by one, the three of them drifted off.
Fern tiptoed home under the watchful stars. She had learned that a collection grows when you share it. Behind her, three small snores joined the forest’s hush — and Fern collected that sound, too.