Free A Guide Book to the Great Tree by Kathryn Huang Page A

swans in the north, and some fantastical purple flamingos in the south. (Ridiculous, of course. We all know that flamingoes are pink).
    â€œThe flamingo! Oh, Fernando—dear, dear Fernando. Lovely, lovely bird. Adored my rendition of the ‘New Moon Ballad,’ he did. Begged me to stay, absolutely begged, I tell you. ‘Oh, Honeyvox,’ he’d say, ‘how are we to live our lives without hearing your bewitching voice every day?’ Alas, I had to be quite firm with him, you see. I told him that I simply must go north to share my gift with other birds.
    â€œAh, and I must tell you about Fiona and Dougal and their darling, darling cygnets. Those little ones…always trying to imitate me with their little ‘whoop-whoops.’ Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, you know. Andthen they’d giggle. Oh, I suppose they knew as well as I did that my voice cannot be emulated, and were simply laughing about their own effort. Why, they were always giggling when I was around. Just couldn’t get enough of me. I would have sung for them longer had they not flown off. Something about an early migration for the family that year, just upped and disappeared one day. Strange birds, migrators. Oh, but they must have been very sad that I could not go with them, I’m sure.”
    On and on Honeyvox went. He talked to any owl who would listen to him. Sometimes, he’d talk to no one at all. Honeyvox was also fond of bingle juice. This he made clear, having carried his own supply all through his difficult voyage.
    To most owls, especially those who knew anything about music, Plonk was a household name. But Honeyvox claimed that he had never heard of the famous singing family.
    â€œPlonk, you say? No, no, doesn’t ring a bell. Snowies, you say? With that ‘kroo-kroo kroo-kroo’ call, I never would have guessed that they made very good singers. Well, to each his own I suppose.”
    Sir Lucien Plonk, the well-loved singer of the tree at the time, was clearly offended. But being the dignified owl he was, he held his beak.
    The owls of Ga’Hoole listened to Honeyvox sing on many a night during his stay. He was grateful for the Guardians’ hospitality and insisted on showing his appreciation with the “gift of song.” He also insisted that the harp guild accompany him every time. Sir Lucien magnanimously agreed, even though the harp guild wasn’t too happy. He noted that, for such a small owl, Honeyvox did have a booming, though not especially refined, voice.
    Honeyvox sang so much and so often, that Sir Plonk was hardly able to get a single note in. The owls of the tree enjoyed Honeyvox’s singing for the first few days. It was a change of pace, after all. By the fifth night, however, the owls were clamoring for Sir Lucien Plonk to make his return. Honeyvox was singing the same two songs again and again. “That moon has dwenked already!” some owls would say under their breaths—one could only listen to the “New Moon Ballad” so many times, especially when the moon wasn’t even newing.
    On the seventh day of Honeyvox’s stay, the snowstorm finally let up. The owls of the great tree assumed that their visitor would be on his way as soon as weather permitted. Yet, Honeyvox lingered on. Days turned into weeks. He could always be found in the gallery of the great hollow, trying to get the harp guild to accompany him on one more song. “Play it again, nesties!” he’d say. He was a freeloader,everyone figured. But it was also clear that he had become enamored with the music of the great grass harp.
    One night, Honeyvox asked Sir Lucien to “talk shop” over a cup of milkberry tea.
    Honeyvox got right to the point, “Say, old Snow, I’ve come to fancy that harp of yours quite a bit, you see. Would you be disposed to selling it to me? Perhaps we could work out some sort of…arrangement. The other owls