The Seasons
Gabriel Reve
Copyright © 2025 Gabriel Reve
Edition: Wendy Soler
The characters and events depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author."
Dedicated: to my beloved children
The Seasons
In a small country, there was a small town. And in that small town, there was a beautiful park filled with trees whose leaves were always green. Beneath the shade of these trees, many children came to play.
“Did you see that little girl with the golden braids? What a lovely dress she’s wearing today!” said the acacia to the oak.
“Yes, and look at that little boy on the swing; what a contagious laugh he has. I hadn’t seen him before.”
“He’s new to the neighborhood,” interjected the poplar in the conversation. “They moved in recently.”
“Then let’s welcome him. Nightingales, let’s hear your song!”
The birds perched on the branches, forming a great chorus, and a sweet melody filled the air.
Then the squirrels joined in with daring acrobatics performed to the rhythm of the woodpecker’s drumming.
The little ones stood with their mouths agape, tugging at their parents’ clothes and pointing upward.
At the finale, the flowers dazzled with beautiful choreographies directed by the gentle breeze, which refreshing strolled among the trees.
After prolonged applause, the kiddos resumed their games, and the cheerful hubbub could be heard well into the evening.
The place filled with children every day. The trees welcomed them enthusiastically, providing shade, protecting them from the midday sun.
And it seemed as if it would always be this way.
But one day, a crow burst into the park, flapping its black wings threatening and shouting in its hoarse voice:
“The cold is coming! The cold is coming!”
“Who is that disturbing our harmony?” asked the poplar.
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before,” replied the acacia. “He’s very rude!”
“Please, Mr. Bird,” the oak addressed the stranger, “why are you stirring up our community? What is the matter?”
“The cold is coming!” the crow kept shouting, and after circling several times, it continued on its way, filling the air with its cries.
“‘The cold?’” everyone asked themselves. “What’s that?”
They were still talking when, without anyone knowing where it came from, a chilly wind swept through scattering the kids to their homes. The trees were left feeling sad, as days passed and no one came.
“Come on, nightingales, cheer us with your song! Let’s make the children feel welcome again!”
But the nightingales had caught a cold and could no longer sing.
They got up and went in search of a warmer place.
“You flowers! Brighten our hearts with a lovely dance!”
But the flowers were frightened and hid away.
“What are we going to do?” wondered the trees. “It feels so deserted and dull here.”
“Let's dress up in colors!” proposed the poplar, and, leading by example, it was the first to change to yellow.
“I like the idea,” said the maple, and dressed in red.
The others joined in, disguising themselves in various colors.
Only the old pine replied grumpily:
“No, I have more important things to do.”
And that’s how autumn was born in that small town.
The curious children began venturing out to see such a marvel, something that had never happened in their neighborhood before. For a while, they kept coming to their colorful park. But the cold grew stronger, and seeking warmth, they all huddled in the small clearing where the sun shone.
Then the trees gathered again.
“They no longer want to play near us,” said the maple.
“No, not even our vibrant attire attracts them anymore,” replied the acacia.
“The one shouting ‘The cold is coming’ was right,” said the oak thoughtfully.
“No one will play under our shade anymore; we only make them feel colder!” said the birch, lowering its branches sadly, and one by one, it began to drop its colorful leaves as if they were tears.
The other trees, seeing this, also broke into sorrowful cries.
They cried until, exhausted from their anguish, they fell asleep.
A passing cloud, felt sorry to see them so unprotected. It wove a white blanket, covered them with it, and went on its way.
Only the pine tree had remained green, but to protect itself from the blizzard it shrank so much that its leaves were reduced to sharp needles.
And that’s how winter was born in that small town.
With no one to keep company with, the pine grew bitter; and although the kids kept coming, and their laughter continued to fill the surroundings with joy, the pine, annoyed, would only throw dry cones at them.
But one morning, when it opened its eyes, it felt different. Looking at itself, it saw that its branches were adorned with garlands and eye-catching spheres. At its top majestically rested a large golden star.
“What is this?!” said the pine, insulted, pointing menacingly with its needles. “Take all this off me right now!”
At that moment, the sun rose, yawned, and stretching, brushed the shining garment with its rays, which burst into a myriad of dazzling flashes, leaving the old grouch speechless.
The curious little ones soon came running.
“How beautiful!” they exclaimed. “Wow, it’s the prettiest tree we’ve ever seen!”
And holding hands, they danced and sang around the pine tree, which, surprised to see so much joy, had already given up the idea of shaking off the annoying ornaments, and from then on wore them proudly at that special time of the year.
Days passed, and the crow returned, this time shouting:
“The cold is going away! The cold is going away!”
As soon as the flowers heard that, they began to cautiously come out of their hiding places.
The trees also began to wake up, and when they saw that they were completely uncovered, they were disturbed.
“I don’t have a single leaf left,” lamented the acacia.
“Me neither,” replied the poplar.
“We need new foliage,” said the oak.
“Yes, but it will take time,” replied the maple.
Some flowers, saddened by their situation, climbed up onto their branches and stayed covering them until new leaves grew.
The nightingales returned, bringing beautiful songs they had learned in the south, and little by little, life began to bustle around once again.
And that’s how spring was born in that small town.
Although it was brief, since summer was quick to claim its space, which in turn had to give way again to autumn, and the last one to winter.
And that, my dear little friends, is how the seasons of the year were born in that small town.
The end.
