Mango the Parrot Who Copied Every Sound

In a warm, green rainforest, where the trees were so tall they seemed to tickle the clouds, there lived a young parrot named Mango.

Mango had bright green feathers, an orange chest like a sunset, and a curved yellow beak. His tail was long and blue, and when he flew between the trees, he looked like a little flying rainbow.

Mango had a special talent. He could copy any sound he heard.

When the frogs croaked by the stream, Mango croaked too. "Ribbit, ribbit!"

When the monkey named Zuri chattered in the treetops, Mango chattered back. "Ooh-ooh-ah-ah!"

When the rain dripped from the leaves, Mango made the sound of dripping. "Plip, plop, plip."

He could copy the buzz of a bee, the click of a beetle, and the whoosh of the wind. He could even copy the sound of a coconut falling from a palm tree. "Thunk!"

At first, all the animals thought it was wonderful.

"Do the frog again!" begged the little lizards.

"Do me!" said the toucan, and Mango did a perfect toucan call, so perfect that the toucan laughed and fluffed her feathers.

Mango loved making everyone smile. So he copied more and more sounds, all day long.

But one morning, things started to go a little wrong.

Mango was sitting on a branch above the stream. He croaked like a frog. "Ribbit! Ribbit!"

Down by the stream, the frogs heard him. They thought another frog was calling them. So they all hopped out of the water and up the bank, looking for their friend.

"Where are you?" they called. "We heard you!"

"It was only me," said Mango. The frogs looked at each other, puzzled, and hopped slowly back to the water.

Later, Mango chattered like Zuri the monkey. Zuri's little brother heard it and thought his big sister was calling him for lunch. He swung all the way across the forest to find her.

"I didn't call you," said Zuri, confused. Her brother's face fell, and he swung home again, hungry and tired.

Then Mango made the sound of the rain. "Plip, plop, plip, plop." The butterflies heard it and hid under the leaves, folding their wings to keep dry. They waited and waited. But the sky stayed bright and sunny.

"I don't understand," said the blue butterfly, peeping out. "Where is the rain?"

Mango felt a strange, wobbly feeling inside. He hadn't meant to trick anyone. He had only wanted to have fun.

That afternoon, he flew to the top of the tallest tree, where a wise old hornbill lived. The hornbill had a big curved beak, kind dark eyes, and grey feathers on his head.

"Uncle Hornbill," said Mango sadly, "everyone liked my copying sounds. But today, it made the frogs and the monkeys and the butterflies all mixed up."

The hornbill nodded slowly. "Copying is a fine game," he said. "But even the finest game can be too much. Tell me, Mango, what is your own sound?"

Mango opened his beak. Then he closed it again.

"My own sound?" he said.

"Yes," said the hornbill. "The frog has her croak. The monkey has his chatter. The rain has its plip and plop. What is the sound that is only Mango's?"

Mango thought and thought. He had copied so many sounds that he had never tried to make his own. He tried to remember. Was it a squawk? A whistle? A song?

"I don't know," he said in a very small voice.

The hornbill smiled. "Then that is something wonderful to find out," he said. "Go and listen. Not to the others this time. Listen to yourself."

Mango flew down to a quiet branch near a waterfall. The water fell in a white, sparkling curtain. Mist floated in the air, and a rainbow shimmered in it.

Mango sat very still. He did not copy the waterfall. He did not copy the birds. He just sat, and breathed, and looked at the rainbow.

He felt happy. Really happy. The kind of happy that makes you want to sing.

So he opened his beak, and out came a sound.

It was not a croak. It was not a chatter. It was not a plip or a plop. It was a bright, bubbly whistle that went up and down and twirled at the end like a ribbon. Wheeoo-wheeoo-tirrrlee!

Mango blinked. He had never heard that sound before. He tried it again. Wheeoo-wheeoo-tirrrlee! It sounded like sunshine on water. It sounded like flying. It sounded like him.

"That's it!" he cried. "That's my sound!"

He flew back through the forest, whistling his new whistle. Wheeoo-wheeoo-tirrrlee!

The frogs poked their heads out of the stream. "What a lovely sound," they said. "Who is that?"

"It's me, Mango!" he said. And then he added, "I'm sorry I called you out of the water this morning. I was copying your croak, but I didn't think about how it might trick you."

"That's all right," said the biggest frog. "We like your new whistle much better. It's easy to know it's you."

He found Zuri and her little brother and said sorry to them too. He found the butterflies and told them the rain sound had been only him. They fluttered out into the sunshine, and the blue butterfly landed on his beak to show there were no hard feelings.

After that, Mango still played his copying game sometimes. But only when everyone knew it was a game, and only when it made his friends laugh.

"Do the frog!" the lizards would squeal, and Mango would croak, and everyone would giggle.

But most of the time, Mango whistled his very own whistle. Every morning, it floated through the rainforest. Wheeoo-wheeoo-tirrrlee!

And everyone who heard it smiled and said, "Good morning, Mango."