The Song of the Wren
A Pawnee Story
The incident of this story occurred in the long ago in the country of the Pawnee nation, in the broad expanse of the Platte River country in what is now the State of Nebraska. The event was in the distant past before the Pawnees had ever seen a white man, or any of his works or strange devices. The people of the Pawnee nation lived in villages of houses built in the manner that the houses of Pawnees had been built for generations. Near their villages lay their fields of corn and other crops which they cultivated to supply themselves with food.
It was a beautiful morning in early summer. The sky was clear and bright, the dawn-light was showing in the eastern sky. All the landscape lay as though still sleeping. There was no movement anywhere. A thoughtful priest had risen and had walked out upon the prairie away from the village so that he might view and meditate upon the beauty and mystery of the firmament of the heavens and of the plane of earth, and of the living creatures thereon, both animal creatures and plant creatures, for in his mind both were equally wonderful and equally interesting, as showing the power and the wisdom of the Great Mystery. So he walked and pondered upon all the beauty and mystery which lay about him, while the face of Mother Earth was still moist with the dew of sleep. In a moment the first rays of the sun shone across the land touching into sparkling brilliance the myriads of dewdrops, while a gentle movement ran through all the grasses and the wild flowers as they swayed to the rippling of the gentle morning breeze which pulsed over the prairie at the first touch of the morning gleam.
Where a moment before all had been so still and so silent now there was movement and sound. Birds of many kinds raised their tuneful voices, showing their joy in life and in the beauty of the morning. The priest, whose mind and heart were open to all this beauty and melody, stood still and listened. In a moment, among all the other bird-songs, he heard one which was clearer and more remarkable than any of the others. This song was a most joyous cheerful sound, like happy laughter. As he approached he found that the joyous, laughing song came from a very tiny brown bird, no larger than his thumb. It was a wren, so small, so insignificant in comparison to the size and brilliant plumage of many of the other birds, yet it appeared to be the most whole hearted in joy and praise and delight in life, as the sweet stream of music welled from its little throat.
The priest looked at the tiny bird, and wisely considered. He said to himself: “The Great Mystery has shown me here a wise teaching for my people. This bird is small and weak, but it has its proper place in the world of life and it rejoices in it and gives thanks with gladness. Everyone can be happy, for happiness is not from without, but from within, in properly fitting and fulfilling each his own place. The humblest can have a song of thanks in his own heart.”
So he made a song and a story to be sung in a great religious ritual of his people, which was to them like our Bible and prayer-book are to us. And the song and story which that thoughtful priest put into the ritual, was the story of the wren. And ever since that time so long ago, the song has been sung by the Pawnees and has been handed down from generation to generation until this time.