It was a summer evening.
The sun had just gone down.
The sky was still a little yellow.
The grass in the fields was tall.
It came up past the child’s knees.
Some of it was taller than that.
There was water on the grass.
The water was cool.
It was just cool enough.
It made his feet a little wet.
Frogs were calling in the field.
They called slowly.
One frog would start, and another would answer.
Far away, the village lights came on one by one.
They were far off, like the windows of other families.
Inside those windows, people were having supper.
After dark, small lights came on in the grass.
One.
Then another.
Then another.
They were fireflies.
There were more of them than he could count.
They flew slowly.
They did not fly in a straight line.
They did not need lanterns to fly.
But they carried their light with them.
The light was very small.
Their light was pale green.
Pale like a leaf.
It did not hurt his eyes at all.
It was soft and green.
Bright, then dark.
Bright, then dark.
As if somebody were counting.
Or blinking, very slowly.
A child walked along the field path with his grandmother.
The path was narrow.
Two people could not walk side by side.
The child walked behind her.
He liked walking behind her.
Her skirt brushed the grass.
He was holding a blade of grass in his hand.
He had picked it a minute before.
He walked slowly, because the grass scratched his ankles.
Then he saw the lights, and he stopped.
He asked: what are those?
Grandmother said: those are little lanterns.
The child asked: where are they going?
Grandmother said: nowhere. They stay here for the night.
The child thought about that.
They were staying, just for tonight.
Grandmother said: the fireflies carry their lanterns and walk in the grass.
One firefly landed on a leaf of rice.
It lit up.
Then it went dark.
Then it lit up again.
He waited for the next one.
One flew across a small ditch.
Its light fell on the water, and the water lit up too.
That light in the water rocked once, and was gone.
He looked for it again.
It was not there.
The water was dark again.
One landed on the back of the child’s hand.
It was very light.
It was a little cool.
It rested there, and then it flew away.
It went up over his head.
Then it joined the others.
His hand still felt cool.
The child did not move.
He did not want to scare it.
The child began to count.
One.
Two.
Three.
Some flew a little higher, and some flew lower.
Some crossed the field, and some came back.
He pointed at one, and then another.
They were everywhere now.
By the time he counted to eleven, he could not tell them apart.
He yawned.
The night wind was cool now too.
He rubbed his eyes.
His grandmother took his hand.
They walked home.
Her steps were slow.
She was in no hurry.
His steps were slow as well.
The day had been long.
The fireflies went ahead of them, one after another.
It was as if someone carried a string of small lamps to light the way.
In China, in the countryside in summer, children walk home with fireflies.
Even the smallest children know the rhyme: firefly, hang your lantern, fly west and fly east.
At the door, the fireflies drifted apart.
They went back into the grass.
The last one went too.
The field was dark again.
Only the frogs were left.
The field grew quiet.
The lamp inside went on, and then it went out.
Grandmother said: time for bed.
The child climbed up onto the warm brick bed.
He lay down, and the window was still open.
A little air came in.
It smelled of wet grass.
Outside, in the grass, a few lights remained.
They were still there for him.
They were slow.
They were quiet.
They were getting sleepy too.
So he closed his eyes with them.
This is an old Chinese folktale.
It is a gentle Chinese fairy tale, and one of the oldest Chinese bedtime stories for children.
Now it is time to close your eyes.
Good night, fireflies.
Good night, little one.
This is a very old Chinese bedtime story. It is not long, and it is very gentle. Best read slowly, with the lights low.
