⏱ ~5 min reading
On a tall pine tree that grew at the very edge of an old forest, there lived a little squirrel. Her name was Shmiglya - for her quick legs and sparkling beady eyes. Her tail was red, fluffy, like a golden cloud. And her ears - with sharp black tassels on the tips, which seemed to always listen to the forest.
When autumn came, Shmyglya got down to business. The pine tree where she lived had seven hollows — round, warm, lined with dry moss. In each one she kept a separate supply for the winter. The first hollow was for acorns. The second was for hazelnuts. The third was for cones with seeds. The fourth was for dried mushrooms. The fifth was for small ripe berries. The sixth was for hazelnut nuts. And the seventh was the highest and coziest — Shmyglya called it "festive." There she hid the best treats — the ones she found first and the most beautiful.
The forest smelled of fallen leaves, wet bark, and a little bit of smoke from a distant village. Shmyglya loved this smell. It meant: time to gather.
But one morning, trouble struck. Shmyglya woke up early, stretched her legs, sniffed the air — and suddenly her head went blank. She forgot how many nuts she had. Completely forgot.
"Oh, just a little," she squeaked. "How many are there?"
She rushed headlong to the first hollow. She pulled out all the acorns, spread them out on a branch. She began to count: one, two, three… ten… twenty. Oh, or maybe twenty-one? No, twenty. Or maybe thirty. Her paws trembled, her eyes darted back and forth. Shmiglya grabbed one acorn, then another, confused the count.
She ran to the second hollow. She poured out the nuts. She counted again. Again something didn't add up.
"And if I don't count, how will I know when the winter is over?" she whispered to herself. "And if it's a long winter? And if Dad comes to visit? And if..."
The sun was already high above the forest. The other squirrels were jumping on the branches, playing, sharing the apple they had found under the maple tree. And Shmyglya kept running through the hollows. Her little heart was beating fast, fast, like a clock without a lid. Her throat was dry. A shiver appeared in her paws.
Each time the numbers came out different. Sometimes twenty-five, sometimes thirty-two, sometimes seventeen. Shmyglya sat on a branch and was about ready to cry.
At that moment a large black bird flew to the top of the pine tree. It was an old crow. Its feathers shone like polished boots. Its eyes were intelligent, calm. It sat down next to Shmyglaya, folded its wings, looked at her for a long time, and finally croaked - quietly, wisely.
"You fool," said the crow gently. "Why are you so fussing?"
"I... I lost my medicine," Shmyglya wiped her eyes with her paw. "I don't know how many nuts I have. And winter is coming. What if there aren't enough?".
“How much do you need?” asked the crow.
Shmyhlya thought about it. And she realized that she didn't know. She never counted how much she needed. She counted how much she had.
"Listen to me, little one," the crow tilted her head to the side. "Don't count the nuts. Count your joy from each one. Then winter will be full to the heart, not to the tail.".
— How is that?
— And here it is. Take one nut. And remember how you found it. What you felt when you did. Think of someone you want to share it with. Then this nut will become not just a reserve — but a memory. And memories fill you up longer than your stomach.
The crow fell silent, nodded goodbye, and flew away. Its wings flapped, and the sky trembled with red leaves.
Shmiglya sat for a long time. Then she carefully took one acorn from the pile. She sniffed it. She twirled it in her paws.
«"I found this one under an old oak tree," she thought, "when it was still morning and the grass was wet with dew. My mother used to take me there to learn how to shell acorns.".
Shmyhlya smiled. Her heart warmed.
She took the second one, a hazelnut. "And I picked this one from the hazelnut tree the day my dad showed me how to jump from branch to branch without being afraid.".
Third. "And I found this one in a sunny meadow - I remember jumping for joy on a stump.".
Fourth, fifth, sixth. A small warm memory clung to each nut. Shmyglya counted not with her paws but with her heart. And the longer she did this, the calmer her breathing became. Anxiety dissolved like frost in the sun.
As evening fell, she looked at her supplies. There were many of them—and each one had a name, a story, a face. It was no longer just a pile of nuts. It was the whole of autumn, packed into round shells.
The winter that year seemed long. The snow was up to the branches. But Shmyglya lived easily. She shared with her friends - with a little hedgehog who ran to warm up, with a bunny who scurried past the pine tree. Because she knew: there would be enough nuts and warm memories for everyone.
And when she felt sad, she would take the most beautiful nut from the seventh hole. And count the joys. It was the best account in her life.
✨ Wealth is not the quantity, but the fullness of what we share ✨