Otis and Wren Trade Jobs

“I bet your job is easier,” said Otis. “I bet yours is,” chirped Wren.

Otis was a woolly mammoth calf with a shaggy coat and a trunk that could curl, swing, and reach higher than his head. Wren was a small brown bird who lived in the sheltered grove at the edge of the prehistoric forest.

A wide branch had fallen beside the grove’s little path. Otis was supposed to move it out of the way before the afternoon was over. Wren was gathering twigs for a nest tucked into the fork of an old tree.

Otis watched Wren hop along the ground, picking up one twig, then another.

“You just choose a few little sticks?” he asked. “I could do that with my trunk before you blink.”

Wren tilted her head. “And you just lift one branch? I could do that with my wings before you blink.”

“Let’s trade jobs,” Otis said. “You try moving the branch. I’ll find your nesting twigs.”

“Deal!” said Wren.

She fluttered down to the fallen branch and planted her feet beside it. Otis headed for the patch of twigs near a fern. He curled his trunk around the first one and lifted it high.

“This one!” he called.

Wren peered at it. “That’s a whole little tree, Otis.”

He set it down and tried another. His trunk wrapped around a thick stick, then a longer one. Each time, he carried it over proudly.

“Too big,” Wren told him. “And that one is too big, too.”

Otis frowned at the pile. “But bigger is better, isn’t it?”

“Not for my nest,” Wren said. “The twigs need to fit together.”

At the branch, Wren leaned her shoulder against the bark and pushed. The branch wobbled, but it did not roll. She tried from the other side. Her feet skidded in the soft dirt.

Otis looked over. “You’re supposed to move it!”

“I know,” Wren chirped. “It’s not listening.”

Otis looked at his oversized twig pile. Wren looked at the stubborn branch. Their afternoon jobs seemed much harder from the other side. The grove grew quiet around them, except for a beetle tapping beneath a leaf and the two friends thinking.

“Maybe,” said Otis, “we should look more carefully.”

Wren nodded. “Let’s see what we’ve missed.”

Otis stepped closer to the twig pile. He studied the sticks instead of grabbing the biggest one. Wren hopped from one side of the fallen branch to the other, peering along its rough length.

“What does a good nesting twig look like?” Otis asked.

“It should be small enough for me to carry,” Wren said. “And it helps if it has a fork—two little arms that meet. I can tuck other twigs into the space.”

Otis lowered his trunk and nudged aside a broad stick. Beneath it lay a slim twig with two neat branches making a tiny V.

“Like this?” he asked.

Wren hopped over. “That’s just right!” She lifted it in her beak and flew to her tree, where she fitted it into the nest’s sturdy base.

Otis watched the twig settle into place. “So you’re not looking for the thickest one.”

“Nope,” Wren said. “I’m looking for a good place where the twigs meet.”

Otis turned toward the fallen branch. He tried to lift it by its middle. His trunk tightened, and his legs braced, but the branch barely moved.

“Too heavy there,” Wren called. She flew along the branch, checking its ends. “Wait! This end is loose. It isn’t caught under the roots.”

Otis followed her beak’s point. The branch’s narrow end rested on a patch of dirt, while the thick middle was wedged beside a stone.

“I can lift the loose end,” Otis said. “Then it might swing free.”

“Give it a try,” said Wren.

Otis curled his trunk around the narrow end. He lifted slowly. The branch rose a little, then scraped across the dirt. Otis stepped backward, careful and steady. The thick middle slid away from the stone, and the whole branch rolled onto the open patch beside the path.

Wren fluttered above it. “You did it!”

Otis gave a happy trumpet. “You found the easy end!”

“And you found the perfect fork,” Wren said. “That’s one twig. I still need a few more.”

Together, they searched the pile. Otis chose slim, forked twigs and passed them gently to Wren. She carried each one to her nest. At last, the little nest held all the new twigs, and the path lay clear beside the branch.

“Both jobs are finished,” Wren said.

“And we know a little more about each other’s work,” Otis replied.

Wren settled into her nest and tested the new twigs with a small shuffle. One fork held another twig snugly. Another made a tidy place for her feet.

“Comfy?” Otis asked from the ground below.

“Very,” Wren said. “And you? Is the path clear enough for your big feet?”

Otis walked along it, placing each foot carefully. The branch rested well out of the way, beside a low patch of ferns. “Clear as a meadow,” he said. “Though I might have left a few muddy footprints.”

Wren looked down at the prints. “They’re very large footprints.”

“Good for carrying things,” Otis said, lifting his trunk with a grin. “Not so good for picking tiny sticks.”

Wren bobbed her head. “And my wings are good for carrying twigs, but not for shifting branches.”

They listened to the grove. Leaves rustled above them. A little breeze slipped between the trees and brushed Otis’s shaggy coat. Somewhere in the forest, a frog gave one low croak, then another, as if calling the afternoon to rest.

“Would you like to trade jobs again tomorrow?” Wren asked.

Otis thought about the enormous twigs and the stubborn branch. “Maybe we should keep our own jobs.”

Wren tucked her beak beneath one wing. “I think so, too.”

“But we can ask each other for advice,” Otis said. “You can help me spot the easy end of things.”

“And you can help me find a safe place to gather twigs,” Wren replied. “Your eyes can see over the fern patch.”

Otis lowered his big body onto the moss and let his trunk stretch out beside him. The work was done, the path was open, and Wren’s nest fit together just right.

“Good night, Otis,” Wren murmured.

“Good night, Wren,” he whispered.

Wren grew still in her snug nest. Otis listened to the leaves whisper overhead, glad to be himself, with a friend nearby and the whole grove settling quietly around them.