After eating its fill and sleeping soundly, the carpenter’s little cricket lay still in its glass jar. Every now and then, it let out a soft, soothing tune. Whenever that happened, the carpenter would grin and brag to his wife about how the well-fed cricket wouldn’t drive her nuts anymore.

Before bed, he carefully carried the cricket into the kitchen, worried it might belt out a midnight serenade and call its buddies over, waking his wife. But come nightfall, a racket even louder than the night before pierced the air. His wife grumbled, “Why’s it so noisy? I thought it was full!” The carpenter stumbled out of bed, shuffled to the kitchen, and realized it wasn’t his little cricket making the fuss—it was… its pals, lurking out on the balcony. Guessing they might be sweethearts, he reunited the two.

Back in bed, he turned to his wife and wondered aloud if he’d done the right thing. What if they weren’t friends and ended up scrapping, leaving his little cricket hurt? But the thought didn’t linger long—he drifted off to sleep.

Until the next morning…

The little cricket and its crew had vanished, as if they’d never been in the carpenter’s home. All that remained was yesterday’s grass, chewed to bits and scattered around.

The carpenter was gutted. He kept pestering his wife—would the little cricket come back? Maybe it was just a playful kid, off gallivanting, only to sneak home by nightfall? He moped all morning until a new idea struck: he’d plant sunflowers, chase a piece of his childhood on that balcony by the cool, green river…

(To be continued)