Whimsey’s Christmas Gift

Whimsey loved her mother dearly, and no less beloved was she. Plainly and poorly they did live in a cottage of straw and stone, without neighbor to be seen. 
When he mother toiled, Whimsey was always near, and when her mother sat, she was nearer still, so close a blade of grass could not between them wedge.
One December morning, hand-in-hand, the two trudged to town in search of mending thread.
On arriving, finding words of the season boldly displayed on windows, walls, and doors, Whimsey, then 5 years of age, inquired of her mother their meanings. Later, alone at bedtime, Whimsey, though hard she tried, failed to repeat the words she had earlier learned.
Those containing the letter “m” did always come out wrong for that letter’s sound, regardless of variation, her voice refused to render.
Changing pursuit, she tiptoed to the fireplace and brought back pieces of unburnt wood. On them, using a chunk of charcoal as ink, Whimsey attempted to write those words her voice misspoke, but an unsteady hand produced nothing better than lines of scribble.
Awakening at dawn with fresh intent, one, however, requiring another’s help, Whimsey raised the near window, laid her chin on its still and whispered “Willer.”
Immediately the straw above rustled as a sparrow, common only in appearance, emerged, fluttering downward to perch afore Whimsey’s nose. After tenderly patting the feathers of her friend, which indeed he was, Whimsey made a request of his abilities.
Returning two nods in response, one to convey understanding, the other to signal consent, the sparrow turned, sprang upward, disappearing into the forest beyond.
Coming in sight of a clearing know for an abundance of spiders, Willer descended. Upon landing, he commended hopping from one decayed log to another collecting stretches of spider’s yarn. From the gathered, by cuts, folds, twists and knottings, Willer formed three bags.
Two were then loaded with berries of holly, the third with noses of a maple tree.
These, one at a time, he air delivered to the sill of Whimsey’s window. In the night, with the needed at hand, Whimsey, aided by moonlight and patience, worked at her endeavor, which, when finished, she hid.
Hidden it remained until December’s exceptional evening.
Finding her mother had paused he knitting, Whimsey withdrew her accomplishment from hiding and supporting it with straining arms rushed forward, plopping it into her mother’s lap. There, arrayed on a length of wood, dozens of berries spoke for a little girl’s heart, “Mery Chrismis, Mumee.”
Lewis writes from Corbin City.