One day the Creator was resting, sitting, watching some children at play in a village.The Children laughed and sang, yet as he watched them, the Creator's heart was sad.Their teeth will fall out. The young hunter's arm will fail. These lovely young girls will grow ugly and fat. The playful puppies will become blind, mangy dogs. And those lovely flowers-yellow, blue, red and purple, will fade. The leaves from the trees will fall and dry up. Already they are turning yellow."

Thus the creator grew sadder and sadder. It was in the fall, and the thought of the coming winter, with its cold and lack of game and green things made his heart heavy. Yet is was till warm, and the sun was shining. The Creator watched the play of sunlight and shadow on the ground, the yellow leaves being carried here and there by the wind. He saw blueness of the sky, the whiteness of some cornmeal ground by the women.

Suddenly, he smiled. All those colors, they ought to be preserved. I'll make something to gladden my heart, something for these children to look at and enjoy!"

The creator took out his bag and started gathering things: a spot of sunlight, a handful of blue from the sky, the whiteness of the cornmeal, the shadow of playing children, the blackness of a beautiful girl's hair, the yellow of the falling leaves, the green of the pine needles, the red, purple and orange of the flowers around him. All these he put in his bag. As an after-thought, he put in the songs of the birds in, too. Then he walked over to the grassy spot where the children were playing. "Children, little children, this is for you," and he gave them his bag. Open it; there's something nice inside, he told them.

The children opened the bag, and at once hundreds & Hundreds of colored butterflies flew out, dancing around the children's heads, settling in their hair, fluttering up again to sip from this or that flower. And the children, enchanted, said that they had never seen so beautiful. The butterflies began to sing, and the children listened smiling.

But then a song bird happened to fly by; settling on the Creator's shoulder, scolding him. It's not right to give our songs to these new, pretty things. You told us when you made us that every bird would have his own song. And now you've passed them all around. Isn't it enough that you have given them the colors of the rainbow?"

You're right, said the Creator. I made one song for each bird, and I shouldn't have taken what belongs to you. So, the Creator took the songs away from the butterflies, and that's why, they are silent.