Mia and the Mystery of the Humming Window

Mia was five years old, and she was very, very curious.

She wanted to know why the sky was blue. She wanted to know where the moon went in the daytime. She wanted to know how the snail carried its house, and why the cat purred, and what made the kettle whistle.

"Why?" was Mia's favorite word. "How?" was her second favorite. And "What is that?" was her third.

Mia lived with her mother and her grandpa in a little yellow house. The house had a green door, a crooked chimney, and a garden full of flowers. Grandpa took care of the garden. He wore a soft brown cap and round glasses, and he had a fluffy white beard.

Grandpa liked Mia's questions. He never said, "Not now." He always said, "Let us find out."

One spring morning, Mia sat at the kitchen table, eating her toast with jam. The window was open a little bit. Sunshine poured in. The curtains moved in the breeze.

Then Mia heard a sound.

Hmmmm. Hmmmm.

She stopped chewing. She listened.

Hmmmm. Hmmmm. Hmmmm.

It was a soft, low, buzzy sound. It seemed to come from the kitchen window.

"Grandpa," said Mia. "What is that?"

Grandpa put down his teacup. He listened too. Then his eyes twinkled behind his round glasses.

"Let us find out," he said. "But we must be quiet. And we must be patient. The best mysteries do not like to be rushed."

Mia nodded seriously. She slid off her chair. She tiptoed across the kitchen floor. Tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe.

She looked at the window glass. She looked very closely. Nothing was there. Just a little smudge where she had pressed her nose yesterday.

Hmmmm. Hmmmm.

She looked behind the curtain. Nothing was there either. Just a dusty corner and one old button.

Hmmmm. Hmmmm.

She looked on the windowsill. There was a pot of basil, a little glass jar, and a sleepy ladybug. But the ladybug was not humming. Ladybugs do not hum.

"Is it the house?" Mia whispered. "Is the house singing?"

"Hmm," said Grandpa, rubbing his beard. "Let us keep looking."

Mia pressed her ear against the kitchen wall, right under the window. The wall felt cool and smooth.

HMMMM. HMMMM.

"It is louder!" whispered Mia. "Grandpa, the sound is louder here. I think it is coming from outside!"

"Then outside we go," said Grandpa.

Mia ran to the door. She pulled on her yellow raincoat. She pulled on her purple boots with the white spots. Grandpa put on his green sweater. And together, they went out into the garden.

The garden was bright and warm. The grass was still a little wet. Birds were singing in the apple tree. The air smelled sweet, like sugar and sunshine.

Mia and Grandpa walked around the side of the house. They walked very slowly. Very quietly. Right to the spot under the kitchen window.

And there it was.

Under the window grew a big bush, covered in purple flowers. The flowers grew in tall, fluffy bunches. They looked like soft purple clouds.

Hmmmm. Hmmmm. Hmmmm.

Mia leaned closer. She looked very carefully.

The flowers were moving. Not because of the wind. They were wiggling and bobbing all by themselves.

Then Mia saw why.

Tiny, fuzzy bees were buzzing from flower to flower. They were round and plump. They had yellow and black stripes, and little clear wings that shimmered in the sun. They dipped their heads into the flowers. Then they zipped to the next bunch. And the next. And the next.

"Bees!" whispered Mia. Her eyes were as big as saucers. "Grandpa, it is bees! They are the ones humming!"

"You solved the mystery," said Grandpa proudly.

"But what are they doing?" asked Mia. "Why are they in our flowers?"

"They are drinking nectar," said Grandpa. "Nectar is a sweet juice inside the flowers. The bees carry it home and turn it into honey."

"Honey!" said Mia.

"And look," said Grandpa, pointing gently. "Do you see the yellow dust on their legs?"

Mia looked. Sure enough, each bee had little yellow bundles on its back legs, like tiny yellow pants.

"That is pollen," said Grandpa. "When the bees carry it from flower to flower, it helps the flowers make seeds. So next year, there will be even more flowers."

"So the flowers help the bees," said Mia slowly, "and the bees help the flowers."

"Exactly," said Grandpa.

Mia watched the bees. They were so fuzzy. They looked as soft as the pom-pom on her winter hat. She wanted to touch one, just with one finger.

She reached out her hand.

Then she stopped.

The bees were so busy. They were working so hard. What if her finger startled them? What if they flew away and never came back to her window?

Mia pulled her hand back slowly.

"Grandpa," she said. "If I stay very still, will they stay?"

Grandpa smiled the warmest smile. "Yes," he said. "Bees are gentle when we are gentle."

So Mia sat down on the soft grass. She folded her hands in her lap. She stayed as still as a statue.

And the bees stayed.

One bee landed on a flower right near her nose. Mia did not move. She just watched.

She counted them. One bee. Two bees. Three bees. Four bees. Five, six, seven bees!

She watched them fly away over the fence. She watched them come back again. She watched one bee wiggle all the way inside a flower until only its fuzzy bottom was showing. Mia had to cover her mouth so she would not giggle too loudly.

Hmmmm. Hmmmm, sang the bees.

Hmmmm, Mia sang back, very softly.

That afternoon, Mia got out her crayons. She drew a picture of the purple flowers. She drew the bees, with their stripes and shiny wings and yellow pollen pants. She drew the kitchen window, and the yellow house, and Grandpa too, with his round glasses and fluffy beard.

She stuck the picture on the fridge.

At dinner, Grandpa set something on the table. It was a little glass jar. Inside was something thick and golden. It glowed in the lamplight like sunshine.

"Honey," said Grandpa. "Made by bees just like ours."

Mia dipped her spoon in. She took a taste. It was sweet and sticky and wonderful. It tasted a little bit like flowers.

"Thank you, bees," she whispered.

From that day on, Mia had a new favorite sound. Every time she heard a soft hmmmm, she smiled.

Because now, she knew just where to look.