Deep in the heart of the Wibblewood Forest lived a plump green monster named Grumble. He had mossy fur, stubby horns, and a permanent scowl not because he was mean, but because sunlight made him squint. Most days, Grumble just wanted to nap under his favorite tree and snack on crunchy pinecones. But the forest wasn’t quiet anymore. Every morning, like clockwork, a flock of bright yellow birds would swoop down from the sky, chirping and flapping and landing right on top of Grumble.
“Why me?” he grumbled. “I’m not a tree!”
But the birds didn’t care. They perched on his horns, nested in his ears, and sometimes even tucked warm eggs into his armpits.
Grumble tried hiding. He tried roaring. He even painted himself brown once, hoping to blend in. Nothing worked. The birds just chirped louder and built fancier nests.
One day, while trying to flick a particularly bold bird off his nose, Grumble slipped and tumbled into the creek. The splash sent the birds flying but something strange happened. Grumble laughed.
It wasn’t a roar or a grumble. It was a full, belly shaking laugh. The cold water tickled his toes. The birds hovered in the air, surprised. Then, one by one, they swooped down again this time not to perch, but to splash too.
From that day forward, Grumble and the yellow birds became the noisiest, happiest bunch in Wibblewood. He no longer grumbled (well, not as much), and the birds no longer nested in his ears.
Instead, they played splash tag in the creek, sang songs at sunrise, and sometimes let Grumble wear their nests like a crown just for fun.
And Grumble? He finally admitted it.
“I guess… I like the noisy little things.”
Even if they still tickled his nose.