The Seasons

Gabriel Reve

Copyright © 2025 Gabriel Reve

Edition: Wendy Soler

The characters and events depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author."

Dedicated: to my beloved children

In a little country, there was a little town. And in that little town, there was a beautiful park filled with trees whose leaves were always green. Many children came to play among those trees.

“Did you see that little girl with the golden braids? What a pretty dress she’s wearing today!” the acacia said to the oak.

“Yes, and look at that little boy on the swing. What an infectious laugh! I haven’t seen him before.”

“He’s new to the neighborhood,” the poplar chimed in. “His family moved here not long ago.”

“Well then, let’s welcome him. Nightingales, sing us a song!”

The birds settled on the branches, forming a great choir, and a sweet melody filled the air.

Then the squirrels joined in with daring acrobatics performed to the rhythm of the woodpecker’s drumming.

The children stared open-mouthed, tugging at their parents’ clothes and pointing up.

For the finale, the flowers dazzled everyone with beautiful dances guided by the gentle, refreshing breeze as it wandered among the trees.

After a long round of applause, the children went back to their games, and their cheerful hubbub could be heard well into the afternoon.

The park was full of children every day. The trees welcomed them eagerly, gave them shade, and protected them from the midday sun.

And it seemed that it would be that way forever.

But one day, a crow swooped into the park, beating its black wings menacingly, and began crying out in a hoarse voice:

“The cold is coming! The cold is coming!”

“Who is that, ruining our harmony?” asked the poplar.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before,” replied the acacia. “How rude!”

“Please, sir,” the oak said to the stranger, “why are you causing such a disturbance in our community? What is it you want?”

“The cold is coming!” the crow kept shouting. After circling the park several times, he continued on his way, his cries piercing the air.

“The cold?” they all wondered. “What is that?”

They were still talking when, out of nowhere, an icy wind swept in and sent the children scattering in every direction, forcing them to seek shelter in their homes. The trees were left sad and lonely as the days went by and no one came.

“Come on, nightingales! Cheer us up with your singing! Let’s make the children feel welcome again!”

But the nightingales had caught colds and could no longer sing. They flew off in search of somewhere warmer.

“Flowers! Cheer us up with a beautiful dance!”

But the flowers became frightened and hid.

“What are we going to do?” the trees wondered. “It feels so empty and gloomy here.”

“Let’s dress in colors!” suggested the poplar, setting the example by being the first to dress in yellow.

“I like that idea,” said the maple, putting on red.

The others joined in, dressing up in different colors.

Only the old pine grumbled:

“No, I have more important things to do.”

And that is how autumn was born in that little town.

The curious children began coming out to see this wonder, unlike anything their neighborhood had ever seen. For a while, they kept coming to their colorful park. But the cold grew stronger and stronger, and to keep warm, they all huddled together in the little clearing where the sun could reach them.

Then the trees gathered again.

“They don’t want to play near us anymore,” said the maple.

“No, not even our bright outfits appeal to them,” replied the acacia sadly.

“The bird who shouted ‘The cold is coming!’ was right,” said the oak thoughtfully.

“No one will play in our shade anymore. We only make them colder!” said the willow, its branches drooping sadly. Then, one by one, it let its colorful leaves fall like tears.

When the other trees saw this, they too burst into tears.

And they cried until, exhausted by so much sorrow, they fell asleep.

A cloud passing by took pity on them when it saw them so bare. It wove a white blanket, spread it over them, and went on its way.

Only the pine had remained green. But as he tried to shelter from the fierce wind, he curled up so tightly that his leaves became sharp needles.

And that is how winter was born in that little town.

With no one to keep him company, the pine grew more and more bitter. Although the children kept coming and their laughter still filled everything around him with joy, he would only throw dry pinecones at them in annoyance.

But one morning, when he opened his eyes, something felt different. When he looked at himself, he saw that his branches were decorated with garlands and bright, colorful ornaments. At the very top sat a huge golden star, majestically shining above him.

“What in the world is this?!” cried the pine indignantly, bristling his needles. “Take all of this off me right now!”

Just then, the sun rose, yawned, and stretched. Its rays brushed against the pine’s glittering decorations, which burst into countless dazzling sparkles, leaving the old grump speechless.

The little ones soon came running.

“It’s beautiful!” they exclaimed. “Wow...! It’s the most beautiful tree we’ve ever seen!”

Holding hands, they danced and sang around the pine. Amazed by so much joy, he gave up the idea of shaking off those annoying decorations.

And from then on, every year during that special season, he wore them proudly.

The days passed, and the crow returned, this time shouting:

“The cold is going away! The cold is going away!”

As soon as they heard him, the flowers began cautiously emerging from their hiding places.

The trees also began to wake. When they saw that they were completely bare, they grew alarmed.

“I don’t have a single leaf left,” lamented the acacia.

“Neither do I,” replied the poplar.

“We need new leaves,” said the oak.

“Yes, but that’s going to take time,” replied the maple.

Then some flowers, taking pity on the trees, climbed up into their branches and stayed there, covering them until the trees grew new leaves.

The nightingales returned with lovely songs they had learned in the south, and little by little, everything around them came alive again.

And that is how spring was born in that little town.

But spring was brief, for summer soon arrived to claim its place. Summer, in turn, had to give way once again to autumn, and autumn to winter.

And that, my dear little friends, is how the seasons of the year were born in that little town.

The End.