Sample bedtime stories

Goodnight, Little Moon

{{image:s01-hero}}

In a soft little rocket, round and warm, Ada floated by the slow planets and the sleepy stars.

Out the round window, Ada saw a small grey moon. It was all alone. The other moons floated together in a ring. But not this little moon. The little moon was lonely.

"Pip," said Ada, "let us make a bridge. Then the little moon can roll to its friends."

So Ada found star-stones. Round and smooth and cool. She put them in a line, one by one, with soft little hands.

But the star-stones floated away. Up and down they went. The bridge came undone. And the little moon stayed all alone.

{{image:s01-s1}}

Ada did not mind. She tried again.

This time Ada pushed the star-stones close, close, close. Pip held one end. But the bridge was too short. It did not reach. And the little moon could not cross.

Ada did not mind. She tried again.

Now Ada found every star-stone. Big ones. Little ones. Tiny ones like seeds. She put them close, close, close. She wrapped soft stardust round each one. Now they could not float away.

{{image:s01-s2}}

The bridge grew long. The bridge grew strong. It reached all the way to the ring of friends.

And the little moon began to roll. Slow, slow, slow, over the smooth star-stones. Over the bridge that Ada made.

The other moons made room. They hummed a soft, happy hum. And the little moon was not lonely anymore.

Ada felt warm and glad. She had helped a friend.

{{image:s01-s3}}

Then Ada climbed back into the soft little rocket. She pulled the round window almost shut. She gave a big, floaty yawn.

The slow planets turned. The stars went soft. Pip curled up warm beside her.

Goodnight, star-stones, smooth and cool.

Goodnight, little bridge across the sky.

Goodnight, little moon, rolling home.

Goodnight, slow planets, turning, turning.

Goodnight, sleepy stars, humming low.

Goodnight, soft little rocket.

Goodnight, Pip, warm and near.

And goodnight, Ada. Sleep, sleep, sleep.

The Sea That Smelled of Bread

{{image:s02-hero}}

On a calm sea, where the water was the colour of a sleepy blue button, Ada sat in a small wooden boat with Pip curled snugly at her feet.

Now, the thing about this particular sea (and I do hope you are listening, because it is rather important) was that it smelled of things. Not of seawater only, but of all sorts.

"Sniff," said Pip softly. So Ada sniffed.

First there came the warm, friendly smell of bread — the sort of smell that pats your tummy and says hello. Ada laughed, because there is nothing quite so cheering, and dipped the oars in to follow it.

{{image:s02-s1}}

The boat slid past swaying seaweed that bowed this way and that, like polite green ribbons saying good afternoon. A curious little fish poked up its nose, sniffed too, and decided to come along.

"Now hay," murmured Pip, and yes — there it was, the soft dry smell of hay, drifting from a raft where someone, long ago, had left a tidy yellow bundle. Ada breathed it in and felt her shoulders go all loose and comfortable.

Then came the salt of the sea, sharp and clean, and after that the green hush of rain that had not arrived yet but was certainly thinking about it. And then, last of all, a single flower smell — sweet and small — coming from somewhere down below the boat.

Ada leaned over and peered into the water. Far down, a young whale floated, very shy, holding a tiny sea-flower in its mouth as gently as a secret.

{{image:s02-s2}}

"It would like the bread, I think," said Pip. "But it is too shy to come up. And the bread is down there, on that flat stone."

Ada looked at the deep blue water and felt her heart go pitter-pat, because the sea was rather far down, and the down-ness of it looked a little scary.

But here is a thing worth knowing: scary and impossible are not the same thing at all.

{{image:s02-s3}}

Ada took a slow breath of that lovely bready, flowery air. Then Ada held tight to a trailing rope, leaned in, and dipped down — just a little — reaching for the warm loaf on the stone.

The water was cool and kind. The little fish swam loops of encouragement. Ada caught the bread, came up shining and breathless, and broke off a soft warm piece.

With the gentlest splash, Ada let the morsel drift downward.

The shy young whale watched. It waited. And then, ever so slowly, it floated up and took the bread, and gave a deep, rumbly, happy hum that Ada could feel right through the boat.

In return, the whale nudged the tiny sea-flower up into her hand. Ada tucked it behind her ear and felt enormously pleased with herself.

The rain, having finished thinking, began at last — a soft, warm, whispery rain that smelled of everything good at once.

The whale hummed lower and slower. The fish settled into the swaying weed. Pip yawned an extremely large yawn.

And as the light over the sea grew soft and grey and gentle, Ada lay back in the little boat, breathing bread and hay and flowers and rain, and let the sleepy sea rock her down, and down, into a warm and quiet dream.

The Cricket Who Forgot His Tune

{{image:s03-hero}}

Deep in a hushed forest of tall, whispering trees, where the moss lay thick as a green blanket and the ferns nodded sleepily together in the dusk, Ada went walking with Pip close behind. The light had turned to gold and grey, and the first stars were peeping shyly through the branches.

Now, this forest had a secret, and it was a very fine one. Every evening, when the sun sank low and the owls began to blink their round eyes, a small cricket named Tibbs sat upon his favourite toadstool and conducted the whole wood in a sleepy tune. He waved his thin arms this way and that, and at his signal the crickets chirruped, the leaves rustled, and even the owls hummed low and warm in their feathery chests. It was, without a doubt, the loveliest lullaby in all the world.

But tonight, the forest was silent.

Ada stood quite still and listened. Pip pricked up its ears and held its breath. There was no tune at all — only the soft hush of branches and the patter of her own careful footsteps upon the moss.

{{image:s03-s1}}

Deeper into the wood they went, until at last they found Tibbs upon his toadstool, looking very small and rather tired indeed. "I have hummed my lullaby every single night since I was a tiny thing no bigger than a seed," he sighed, rubbing his weary eyes. "But tonight my voice has gone all soft and faint, and I simply cannot remember how it begins. And without the first three notes, you see, the whole wood does not know when to start."

Ada knelt down among the cool ferns, so as to be near him. "I heard your tune last night," Ada said gently. "I believe I remember it. May I help you, Tibbs?"

Tibbs looked up in surprise, for he was always the one who helped others off to sleep, and it felt strange and rather lovely to be helped himself for a change.

{{image:s03-s2}}

So Ada took a slow, deep breath and hummed — very quietly at first — the three little notes that opened the lullaby. Low, then high, then low once more, like a smooth pebble dropped softly into a still pool.

Tibbs's eyes grew bright as two dewdrops. "That's it! That's exactly how it begins!"

{{image:s03-s3}}

Ada hummed it again, and this time Pip joined in with a soft, warm sound of its own. Then, from somewhere among the ferns, a single cricket answered. Then another, and another, until the tune rolled out across the moss like a gentle tide creeping up a shore.

But poor Tibbs was still far too tired to wave his thin arms. So Ada had a clever idea, and lifted one hand slowly up and down, just the way Tibbs always did, keeping the time for everyone in the wood.

The owls hummed. The leaves whispered. The whole hushed forest sang the sleepy tune together, and because they were all sharing it — every cricket, every owl, every nodding fern — the tune sounded richer and rounder and far more beautiful than it ever had when one small cricket hummed it quite alone.

Tibbs settled himself comfortably upon his toadstool and let the wood carry the song without him. "How perfectly splendid," he murmured, his eyelids drooping, "to hear my own lullaby sung back to me at last."

When the very last note drifted away into the dark, the forest was wonderfully still and content, like a child tucked snugly in. Ada tucked the little tune safely inside her memory and tiptoed home through the ferns, with Pip yawning a great wide yawn at every other step.

At the edge of the wood waited a warm bed and a soft, plump pillow. Ada climbed in, and Pip curled close and cosy. Outside the window the trees stood quiet, the owls blinked ever so slowly, and the three little notes still hummed somewhere far away among the moss, faint and dear.

And Ada closed her eyes, snug and warm beneath the blanket, and let the sleepy tune carry her gently, gently down into the deepest and softest of dreams.