Mr. Owl was unaccustomed to hearing his doorbell ring at night. In the mornings before school, perhaps. In the afternoons, after school or at teatime, of course. But not after dark.

Not knowing who or what to expect, he answered the door and found a tiny, fluffy owl, bouncing from foot to foot, holding an envelope in his beak. The little owl spit the envelope at Mr. Owl, apologized profusely, and introduced himself as Harold.

​

The letter, now lying on the floor, was addressed to Mr. Owl in the familiar scratchy handwriting that could only belong to his elderly aunt.

(Mid-August 2024)

Story © Jennifer McClain Singleton / Read+Purr

This is another vignette in my ongoing series of Tiny Garden Stories: peaceful 1-minute tales that let you read like a kid again. Click one of the first two buttons below to go to (or back to, if that’s where you fell down the rabbit hole) either the “Public Garden” archive page or (if you’re a Story Club member) to the members-only “Private Garden” page. Or click the third button to learn more about my Tiny Garden Stories.

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