A magpie named Strekotuhka was a cheerful bird. She jumped on the branches, chattered with everyone, loved shiny things. Her nest was in an old apple tree in the village. Everything was going well. Until last fall - she fell. Unluckily. She broke her wing.
She was treated all summer. But it grew back crookedly. She could hardly fly — only briefly, low, limping in the air. The other magpies flew away to warmer climes. The little bird remained.
Winter came. The garden became empty. It was cold. The thrush hid in the hollow of an old apple tree. It slept there, its feathers bristling. But the frost was piercing through. Its paws froze. Its beak could barely open.
It was a storm before Christmas Eve. The little bird felt that one more night like this would not wake her up. Then she did something she had never done before: she jumped closer to the human house. There was a dog in the yard. But the dog was sitting on a chain far away.
The window of one of the houses was slightly open - for fresh air. A little bird jumped up and jumped inside. The house is warm. It smells like borscht. A woman is kneading dough.
The woman turned around. She saw a magpie on the windowsill. She shuddered. «Oh! A magpie in the house is a bad sign, they say.» She wanted to scare it away, to drive it away. She picked up the towel.
But suddenly, something whispered behind her shoulders. Quietly, gently. As if Saint Nicholas himself had breathed. "Don't chase her away. Today is Christmas Eve. She's also God's little animal.".
The woman lowered the towel. She came closer. She looked at the magpie — wet, with a crooked wing, her eyes frightened.
"You're poor. You can't fly. You're freezing. But where can I drive you at night?"
She carefully took a warm piece of old cloth. Wrapped the magpie in it. She placed it on a bench near the stove—it was warm there, but not hot. She gave it a piece of a pancake soaked in milk.
The little bird couldn't believe it. At first she shivered. Then she started to peck at the bread. Then she warmed up. She started to chatter softly - as if she was saying thank you.
The woman listened and cried. She didn't know why—suddenly tears flowed. Maybe it was because on Christmas Eve, like this—both the man and the bird found each other.
All winter, the little bird lived in a corner by the stove. The woman carefully bandaged her wing - every day. The man sneered - "Well, now we have three children and one magpie." And he fed her nuts himself.
By spring, the wing had grown back evenly. The magpie began to try — now it would jump onto the bench, now onto the table. One day in March, when the sun was already warming up, the woman opened the window. The magpie flew up to the windowsill. It looked. It looked at the woman. And flew away. Straight into the blue sky. Like a real magpie.
The woman stood, looking after her. Suddenly she noticed a magpie circling in the apple tree branches. It came down. It was holding something shiny in its beak. It threw it right into the woman's hand. A small gold earring—the same one the woman had lost in the summer and never expected to find.
The woman smiled. She raised her eyes to the sky. And whispered softly: «Thank you, Uncle Nikolai. I really heard your whisper then. And you knew that the Magpie would also bring me a gift.» And the magpie was already flying far, far away — into the spring.
💛 Sometimes we save someone - and we don't know who we're actually saving.