The Ugly Duckling ⭐ Gentle Bedtime Story for Sleep | The Quiet Corner

Hello, my little ones. I am Luna, and this is my friend, Twinkle. There you are, all tucked in, warm and soft. I am so glad you are here with me tonight. How was your day today, little one? Long, maybe. Full of so many things. It's all finished now. Every bit of it. There's nothing left to carry. And I wonder, did you ever feel somewhere in your day just a little bit different from everyone else? Have you ever looked around and felt like all the others somehow knew just how to be, and you weren't quite sure you fit that soft, small, lonely feeling of not quite belonging? Just yet, it's a tender feeling. And oh, so many have felt, even the ones who grew up to be the most beautiful of all. There's an old, old story about that very feeling. Hans Anderson told it long ago. Come along with me, and I'll show you a little duckling who felt just the same. And I'll show you all the way at the end how it came right. Green burdock leaves at the edge of a quiet farmyard pond on a gentle summer day. Long ago, the water shines, the rushes whisper. It's a drowsy golden sword. And there's a nest among the weeds. A mother duck is waiting on her eggs. One by one, they crack and open, peep, peep, and out, fluffy and yellow, blinking at the wide, green world. But one egg, the biggest one, is slow. It waits and waits, and at last it cracks, and out comes the final duckling. And this one is different, bigger than the others. Gray and rather plain, and clumsy on his big feet. Not neat and yellow like his brothers and sisters, just large and soft and gray. How odd he looks, said the other ducks. And the little gray duckling, who had only just opened his eyes on the world, did not yet understand why they said it so unkindly. And the farmyard was not kind to him. The other ducks pecked at him and pushed him aside. The hens scolded him. The proud turkey cock puffed up and hissed at him. They laughed at his grayness and his clumsy feet, and told him he was ugly, and wished he would go away. Even his own brothers and sisters turned from him. And at last, even his mother grew tired and sighed, and wished he had never been hatched at all. And the little gray duckling grew very sad and very lonely. He crept away into corners, and he began to believe the hard thing they told him, that he was ugly and wrong, and wanted nowhere. So one gray morning, he slipped through the hatch and ran away, out past the farmyard, out into the wide world, to look for somewhere, anywhere, that he might belong. He came first to a great marsh, where the wild ducks lived. He rested among the reeds. Tired and lonely, the wild ducks looked him over, and thought him very odd. But they let him be, until the guns of hunters cracked across the marsh one morning, and he fled, frightened, deeper, into the wild. He wandered on, and came at last to a little tumble-down cottage, where an old woman lived, with a hen and a cat. The old woman's eyes were dim, and she took him in, thinking he might lay eggs. But the hen and the cat prowled, and looked down their noses at him. Can you lay eggs? clucked the hen. Can you purr, or arch your back? asked the cat. And when the ducklings said, no, no, he could do none of these things, they scorned him, and told him he was good for nothing at all. And the duckling, who longed only for open water and the sky, crept away once more, into the wide, lonely world. And then, one soft evening, on a wide, still lake, he saw them, a flock of great white birds, rising from the water, long, graceful necks, and white, white wings, gleaming in the evening light, the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen. He did not know their name, but as they flew away, toward warmer lands, a strange feeling stirred in him, a longing so deep, it almost hurt. And he stretched his own gray neck up after them, and gave a cry, so wide and strange, it startled even himself. He could not forget them. Something in him leaned after them. The way you lean toward a warm fire. The year was turning cold. The leaves went gold, and then brown, then bare. The wind grew sharp. The clouds hung low and heavy with snow. And winter came down hard and white over the lonely water. The little duckling swam round and round, to keep a small patch of water open. But the cold grew, and the ice crept closer. Until at last, one still evening, it closed softly around him, and held him fast. Too tired, and too cold to swim another stroke. And there he might have stayed. But in the morning, a kind farmer came by, and saw him, and broke the ice with his wooden shoe, and gathered the frozen little duckling, and carried him home, warm against his coat. So the duckling was sheltered through the hardest of the winter, warm and quiet and safe. And little by little, resting, waiting, he grew. Though he did not know it. And the long white winter passed over him, like a deep and healing sleep. And at last, softly, slowly, the spring came back. The ice melted into shining water. The reeds grew green, the larks sang, and the warm sun returned. And the young bird, resting in a quiet marsh, felt something lift in him, and spread his wings. And how strong they were now. How wide, and how powerful. They beat the air, and lifted him high, and carried him away. But the greening man, until he came to a beautiful garden, where apple trees bloomed, and a clear canal walked through the flowers. And there, gliding on the clear water, were the great white bird again. Three of them, calm and lovely in the spring light. The young bird saw them, and that deep old longing rose up in him once more. I will fly to them, he thought. Those splendid, beautiful creatures. Perhaps they will scorn me, ugly as I am, but let them do as they will. I would rather be near them just once, than be alone any longer. And he flew down, and lit upon the water, and bowed his head low before them, and waited. And there, in the still clear water, he saw his own reflection. And it was not a grey and clumsy duckling, looking back at him. It was a swan. A beautiful white swan, with a long graceful neck, and wide, wide wings. He had become one. Oh, through the quiet growing of that long neck, he had become one all along. And the three great swans glided close around him, not to scorn him, not to drive him off, but to bow their heads, and welcome him, and stroke him gently with their soft pelts. As if to say, there you are, there you are at last. You are one of us. And some children came running down to the water's edge, and threw crumbs, and cried out, a new swan has come, and he's the most beautiful of them all. And the young swan felt shy, and quiet, and almost too glad to bed. He tucked his head beneath his wing, hardly knowing what to do with such happiness. He had been scorned, and lonely, and had wandered so far. And here, all along, was where he belonged. He had been beautiful all along. He had only been growing into it. You were never wrong, my little ones. You were only young, and becoming. And where you belong, is waiting for you, even now, even tonight, slowly away. The story folds itself up, gently, and tucks itself away, until another evening. That's the one for tonight, my little ones. You did enough today. You were enough today. And there's all the time in the world to rest now. I say goodnight soon, but only for a little while. You are warm. You are held. You are exactly where you belong. Goodnight, my little ones. Sleep soft. I'll see you soon, with Twinkle, and another old story. You rest. You dream. You sleep, deep and easy, the whole night through. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are. Up, up, so high, like a diamond in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are.