The old woman sat with her granddaughter under the giant oak. They had come out in the dark hour before sunrise to catch the colors of the new day as it was born..a small joy that they shared as often as they were able.

On this particular morning, a grey and white bird was singing in a bough over their heads, running through a wide repertoire of whistles and songs. The little girl listened, delighted at first, until she realized that the bird was repeating the same sounds, over and over. After a few moments, she began to recognize the songs of the sparrow, the robin and the lark. She even heard a cat's meow, and a squeaking wheel within the song. Puzzled, she tugged gently on her the old woman's shawl.

"Grandmother," she asked, "why does that bird sing the way he does? Doesn't he know any songs of his own?"

The old woman cocked her head, and smiled sadly up at the little bird. "He did once, long ago, "she replied, "but he listened far too well. Come sit by me, Ninchka, and I will tell you the story of the mockingbird."

The little girl moved closer, nestling happily into the soft folds of her grandmother's shawl, for there were few things that she loved as much as hearing a story.

"Long ago," the woman began, "there was a musician of such great renown that all the kings of all the kingdoms far and near vied for his services. He knew all the songs that had ever been sung. His delivery was precise, and perfect. He knew exactly when to sing softly and when to raise his voice. His rhythm was flawless, his timing exact, his notes pitched just so. He never forgot a word, or faltered on a difficult passage. His own compositions were written with careful attention to the rules that had been laid out by those before him. Because of this he never startled or shocked anyone by doing something unexpected, or new. Everyone knew just what to expect, and were never disappointed.

"Older musicians approved of him because he showed respect for the laws they had made regarding composition and form, and most younger musicians emulated him, because they wished to be as popular and as well loved as he was. He was considered to be the highest authority on music in the land.

The little girl stirred restlessly. "Yes..but where does the bird come in?" she asked.

"I'm coming to that," chuckled Grandmother, "Be patient."

The lass, immediately contrite and eager to hear the rest, nodded and sat quietly once more.

"One day," the woman continued, "the musician was sitting in a field in the moonlight, practicing a new song for the king of that particular land. He was humming softly to himself when a small grey and white bird landed in a bush nearby. The little bird had never heard a man sing before, and he was very impressed. He ruffled his feathers and listened quietly until, inspired by the man's melodious voice, he took it upon himself to join in.

"Now..you have to understand..this little bird had no knowledge of any man's structure, or rules. The songs he sang came directly from his heart in a burst of unruly notes and joyous abandon. He trilled up, down and sideways in a glorious celebration of happy noise. He sang sunlight and spring breezes and the rising sap in the trees, with an absolute disregard of arrangement or measure.

"The musician was appalled.

'Here now!' he exclaimed. 'Stop that racket! Have you no sense of propriety? I'm trying to make music here!'

"The little bird stopped, abashed. He had only meant to please the man with his song, and even a bird's brain could comprehend that he had failed miserably. He huddled down into the bush, only his bright eyes showing through the shadowed branches. He made a low inquiring 'cheep?' at the musician, who pinned him with a stern gaze.

'Do not interrupt your betters,' he sniffed. 'Obviously, you know nothing about how music is made. You would do well to listen carefully to those who do know, and learn to imitate them. If you continue to insist on inflicting your disorderly noise on the ears of the world you will surely be scorned by all who hold music to be an art.'

"Well..as I said before..the little bird was a very good listener. He had spent his entire life listening. To the wind, the earth..the very stars in the sky..all of which he had put into his own song. So it shouldn't surprise you that he listened to the musician's words, and took them to his heart, as he had everything else he had ever heard. Because he was by nature sweet, humble and quite modest..and because he had indeed admired the man's music, he decided then and there that he would do his best to follow the musician's advice.

"He flew off at sunrise, and spent the day in silence, listening until sundown..at which time he repeated what he had heard over and over..trying to make each note perfect.

From that day to this he has listened to all the other singers in the lands, and practiced their songs in hope of someday being the finest singer in the world." The Grandmother looked up at the still singing bird. "That's why he sings that way." she finished.

The child, all curiosity, asked, "What happened to the musician?"

"Oh.." the old woman shrugged, with a wry laugh, "he was eventually replaced and forgotten. People do grow tired of the sameness of things after a while, and bold new musicians who sing from their hearts will eventually win out. The spirit will always answer to the purest, most honest voices."

"And the mockingbird? Did you ever hear it's real song?" asked the little one eagerly.

The old woman sighed sadly. "No Ninchka. No one living has, and no one ever will, for he has forgotten it in his search for a mimicked perfection. He is doomed now to sing only the songs of others..never his own."

"How sad." the little girl said softly.

It was at that moment that the horizon began to glow with the beautiful colors of sunrise. The old woman smiled down at the child, admiring the glint that the first light of morning laid on her golden hair. She kissed those gilded locks tenderly, and whispered, "You must always remember, Ninchka. Sing no one else's song but your own."

The little one smiled sweetly and touched her grandmother's cheek. "I will." she promised earnestly. They sat contentedly, watching the day begin.

The mockingbird, exhausted from his practice, fell quietly asleep in the branch above, dreaming songs of starlight and breezes and moonbeams..that the world would never know.