The story begins far, far to the frozen north in the Burzee Forest, home of the Knooks , helpers to Santa. This magical forest is across from the Deadly Desert, south of the Quadling Country, according to L. Frank Baum who blessed us with his awesome tales of Oz and fantastic lands. You never knew what would happen in those days, in that forest.
The Beginning
Well, it was almost a thousand years ago–way before you or I were even a thought. And the Burzee was special. It’s where Santa Claus grew up. Now, the story has come down generation to generation. From grandparents to parents to children.
It’s said that a flock of birds — likely sparrows, the poorest of birds - had to go south as usual, ahead of winter’s bitter cold. Being a little unorganized, like the grasshopper of old fables, they put their journey off, enjoying nice weather. Instead of preparing and getting a move on, they swooped along tree tops, snacked on abundant seeds and berries, and played. Too long, it turns out.
After a time, they soared upward. All seemed well. Their first travel day was sunny. Balmy. But the afternoon sky grew heavy. The leader sparrows worried.
There’s a Cold Wind on the Rise
Day two was another story all together.
Wind swept in from the frigid north, strong and gusty. It shoved sparrows every which way. Gusts stuck ice-crystals into feathers, gluing them together. Sleet blurred the birds’ view.
Some sparrows tried to take to the trees below. The angry wind pursued them, shaking them off branches. They plopped down, shivering, trying with all their might to take to the sky again. Landing was too risky.
The long day froze them to their bones. No sun. Snow tired each little bird, made them heavy and clumsy. The ground was a white wasteland. Not a good situation. Terrified, the sparrows forged on — valiantly trying to outdistance the blizzard — but becoming hopelessly lost. South? Who knew where south was now?
The sun, seeming just as worn out, slumped to the horizon and the birds knew they couldn’t go on. The leaders gathered the flock into a small V pattern so they could see each other, stick together and find shelter. Would they never find safety?
Sadly, one by one, wings stiff, feathers wet, heavy and frozen, they dropped from the sky like little stones. Hope was gone.
Won’t You Please, Please Help…
A large spruce tree, firmly anchored in the stormy dusk of Burzee Forest, saw sparrows plummeting toward him. He took a deep breath, swelling his branches to their widest width, and he caught birdies two-by-two, sheltering them in his greenness. Spruce, whose heart was as warm as his branches, sheltered the little flyers, soothed their terror and rocked them gently to sleep.
Finally, the storm blew itself out and went away. Soft yellow moonlight picked out shadows on the snow. The moon smiled at the birds snoring peacefully in evergreen beds.
In the meadow, quite near the spruce, stood a tiny log house. The garden patch around it was known for its bounty of vegetables and flowers in the spring. It snoozed under snow and moonlight now. Smoke sailed up through the cabin chimney. It smelled homey and warm. In the window stood a single candle with a red ribbon tied to its base to hold it in place on the sill.
Early in the day, when the storm began, the grandma who lived there with her husband, gazed worriedly out the window. At noon, she breathed a circle of warmth on the frozen glass, rubbed away the frost and peered through a tiny open space.
“Hmm. I need to light the way for travelers this day,”
