Gilly Goose Cannot Whistle

Every bird on the lake could whistle. At sunrise, ducks piped from the reeds, swallows stitched bright notes across the sky, and even sleepy gulls managed a tune. Gilly could skim, splash, and honk magnificently, but she wanted one neat whistle for the evening song. She went to the heron. “Could you teach me?”

The heron folded his wings like a pair of tidy umbrellas. “Whistling requires precision,” he said. “First, purse your lips.” Gilly blinked. “Lips,” she said. “I left mine on my other beak.” The heron looked closely. “Do your best. Now you.”

Gilly tucked in the corners of her beak. Her eyes crossed. Her tail rose. She blew. Pffft. A loose reed stuck beneath her nose like a green moustache. She blew harder, and the heron’s neat head feathers sprang straight up. HONK. That was not a whistle.

A frog popped from the lilies. “Too fussy!” he boomed. “A whistle starts in the cheeks. Make them round as two pond bubbles.” He puffed until his eyes nearly disappeared. “Like this. Puff!” Gilly filled her cheeks with air.

Her face grew round. Her body tipped left. She paddled forward, but her back end disagreed. Sideways she floated, straight through three lily pads and around the surprised frog. Then she squeezed out one careful breath. HONK. That was not a whistle.

The wind arrived without landing. It rustled the rushes and whispered, “No lips. No cheeks. A whistle is only a long, thin blow. Breathe iiiin.” Gilly breathed in until her chest looked as plump as a pillow. “Now blow loooong.”

Fwhoosh! A fisherman’s hat sailed from his head, skipped twice, and landed on Gilly’s tail. “My hat has learned to migrate,” he said. Gilly carried it back and set it gently on his head. Then she tried one smaller breath. HONK. That was not a whistle.

Gilly’s wings sagged against her sides. One webbed foot drew slow circles in the mud. She had tried lips, cheeks, and blowing. None sounded like her. Then she raised her head. What if the whistle did not have to replace the honk? She breathed in, let her own sound come, and wrapped a thin ribbon of air around it. “HOOONK-WHEEEEE-ooo!” The whole lake went still.

“Again,” said the heron. Gilly made it louder. “HOOONK-WHEEEEE-ooo!” The heron answered with a polite “fwheenk.” The frog tried “ribbit-wheep” and spun in a circle. The wind whoo-honked through the reeds. The fisherman puckered so hard that his hat slipped over one eye. Gilly flapped with laughter. “Once more, but softer.”

Evening settled over the lake. The ducks practised low honk-whistles. The swallows tried tiny, silver ones. The frog made one last bubbly squeak, then tucked himself beneath a leaf. Gilly floated among them, listening as every new sound grew quieter.

Across the dusk, one soft “hooonk-wheee” curled over the silver water.

The End