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Humphrey was a very nervous hamster who loved to hike. He loved the fresh air, the feeling of adventure, but he absolutely despised the idea of getting his whiskers wet. It was an irrational fear, but a powerful one.

One sunny Saturday, Humphrey was hiking along the bank of the winding River Glimmer. He was trying to jump across a particularly wide, muddy section when he slipped.

"Oh, calamity!" squeaked Humphrey, teetering precariously on the edge. He was moments away from a full, horrifying, whisker-soaking sploosh!

Just then, a long, gray shadow fell over him. A tall, elegant heron named Harriet landed silently on the bank. Harriet looked down at the panicking hamster.

"Trouble, little one?" Harriet asked, her voice calm and surprisingly deep.

"My whiskers!" Humphrey wailed. "They will be soggy! I will be disgraced! I cannot be a wet-whiskered adventurer!"

Harriet considered this. She bent her long neck and picked up a large, dry lily pad that was lying nearby. She gently placed it in the middle of the mud puddle.

"There," she said. "Use that as a stepping stone."

Humphrey looked at the lily pad. It was a good idea, but it was still very close to the mud.

Harriet sighed. She then bent down again and very carefully placed her own enormous, flat foot right next to the lily pad. "Here," she said. "Now you have a dry-foot bridge."

Humphrey hesitated. He took a giant leap and landed safely on the heron's foot. He then took another tiny hop and landed on the lily pad. He then scurried the rest of the way across the dry bank, entirely mud-free.

He turned back. "Harriet, you saved my whiskers! Thank you!"

Harriet smiled, but then she looked down at her foot. She had completely forgotten that her foot was still in the mud. She lifted it up.

"Oh dear," she said, looking at the large, perfectly-formed, muddy footprint. "It seems I have traded a soggy hamster for a muddy heron."

Humphrey, safe and dry, burst into laughter. "Don't worry, Harriet!" he chirped. "I'll fetch you the best, driest, most whiskery-safe piece of moss I can find to wipe that off!"

Harriet chuckled, shaking her head. From that day on, Humphrey hiked with a small, dry piece of lily pad on his back, and Harriet occasionally stopped by to trade a little help for a good, clean joke.

Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!

Chester was a talented musician, but he had a peculiar problem. His favorite wooden flute, inherited from his slightly eccentric Great-Aunt Mildred, didn't play musical notes. It played food.

Chester was trying to practice for the annual town concert. He put the flute to his lips and blew a high, clear note.

Ploink! A single, perfectly ripe grape popped out of the end and landed in his lap.

He tried again, a cheerful, upbeat trill. Piff! Paff! Poff! Three small, crispy tater tots shot across the room and bounced off the wall.

"This is impossible!" Chester moaned, wiping a smear of melted butter off his sheet music. "How can I play a soaring sonata when all I get is a starchy serenade?"

His best friend, a little girl named Lucy, was watching. She loved watching Chester practice, especially when he played fast, lively tunes. "Try a very long, low note, Chester! A B-flat!"

Chester took a deep breath and blew the lowest, longest note he could manage. The flute vibrated deeply. WHOOOMPH! A magnificent, multi-layered jelly roll—raspberry and lemon swirl—oozed out of the flute and landed with a soft thud on the rug.

"Amazing!" Lucy cried, already reaching for a slice.

"But the concert is tomorrow!" Chester protested. "I'm supposed to play 'Ode to the Open Meadow,' not an appetizer arrangement!"

He decided to give it one last try. He thought very hard about the sound of a flute. A high, thin, sweet, pure sound. He pursed his lips and blew a single, hopeful, sustained note.

SHWOOP!

Out of the flute, instead of a note, a single, perfectly formed, tiny sugar cookie—shaped exactly like a miniature flute—flew out.

"It's getting smaller!" Lucy observed.

"I think I've finally cracked the code," Chester grinned. "It doesn't play music, but it plays what I think about! That note was so clean, my brain gave me a cookie that looked like a musical instrument!"

He thought about a drum solo. PUM-chick-a-PUM! The flute spat out a small, crunchy pickle (the only salty, crunchy thing his brain could conjure).

Chester had an idea. He looked at Lucy. "The town concert is going to be hungry. I may not play music, but I can certainly play a post-concert feast!"

The next day, the crowd was confused when Chester simply stood on stage, blowing his flute while a steady stream of small tarts, mini-muffins, and chocolate chips rained down onto the stage. But by the time he played a grand finale of a towering three-layer sponge cake, the audience was cheering and happily devouring the most delicious, and most unusual, musical performance ever.

Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!

Professor Quibble was an inventor, but not a very good one. His greatest creation was a vacuum cleaner named Vinnie. Vinnie was programmed with state-of-the-art AI, but Professor Quibble accidentally wired the 'Performance Mode' to an old theatre script he'd found. The result? Vinnie cleaned, but only with extreme dramatic flair.

Vinnie wouldn't just glide across the floor. He'd sweep into the room and stop, the whirring of his motor a theatrical sigh. "Oh, cruel, cruel dust!" Vinnie would lament, his mechanical voice booming through the mansion. "You plague my existence! Must I forever chase your tiny, fleeting shadows?"

The professor's house cat, Mittens, usually napped peacefully, but Vinnie's routines made napping impossible. Mittens would watch, annoyed, as Vinnie approached a dust bunny.

"Behold!" Vinnie would cry, his suction power reaching its peak. "The villain of this tragic tale! I shall consume you! Not with malice, but with a weary sense of duty!" And WHOOSH, the dust bunny was gone.

One afternoon, Professor Quibble dropped his keys behind the sofa. "Vinnie, old friend, could you just retrieve my keys? They're right there."

Vinnie rolled to the spot and dramatically paused. "The shadows lengthen..." he whispered, his red light flashing ominously. "The object of desire lies beyond the velvet precipice! I must brave the unknown... the cushion-covered abyss!"

Mittens, who was tired of the theatrics, saw her chance. She quietly batted one of the keys just out of Vinnie's reach.

Vinnie saw the key move. He let out a mechanical wail of despair. "Alas! Fate itself conspires against me! The prize slips through my grasp! I am but a hollow shell of a cleaning appliance!"

He began to recite a long, rambling monologue about the futility of cleaning, until Professor Quibble, laughing heartily, simply reached behind the sofa himself.

"Vinnie, my boy," the professor said, patting the top of the machine. "Maybe just a little less drama next time, eh?"

Vinnie's motor sputtered. "As you wish, my Lord," he replied in a deep, booming baritone. "The show... must go on." And with a final, unnecessary bow, Vinnie zoomed off to dramatically chase a stray potato chip under the dining room table.

Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!

Penelope lived in a very ordinary house with a very ordinary garden. The only thing extraordinary about Penelope was her passion for oddity. She collected buttons with three holes, spoons with slightly too-long handles, and miniature rubber ducks that only floated sideways.

One morning, while inspecting her tomato plants, Penelope discovered a pineapple. This was odd because pineapples don't grow in her climate. This was extra odd because this pineapple was covered in bright, fluorescent polka-dots.

Penelope picked it up. It didn't smell like a pineapple; it smelled faintly of fresh-cut grass and pencil shavings.

"Well, hello there, little anomaly," she said to the fruit.

She took it inside and placed it on her kitchen table. Her neighbor, Mr. Splinter, who believed everything in the world should be perfectly normal and beige, peered through her window.

"Penelope!" Mr. Splinter called out, his face twitching. "Is that... a spotty pineapple? Pineapples are yellow! Get rid of it! It's upsetting the natural order!"

Penelope smiled sweetly. "But Mr. Splinter, it's a polka-dot pineapple! It's magnificent!"

She tried to cut it, but her knife wouldn't go through the tough, brightly-patterned rind. She decided to keep it as a houseguest.

That evening, as Penelope was reading a book, the pineapple began to gently hum.

HMMMMMMMM-bloop-HMMMMMMM.

Penelope listened. It sounded like a tiny, enthusiastic choir singing inside a glass jar. She put her ear closer.

"Excuse me," she whispered. "Are you singing?"

The pineapple stopped humming. A tiny, high-pitched voice came from inside. "Well, yes! But I'm terrible at it! I'm trying to practice my tenor part!"

"Oh, you have a lovely tenor voice," Penelope lied kindly.

The pineapple sighed. "Thank you. But I should warn you, I'm not a real pineapple. I'm actually a small, slightly confused robot scout sent from a planet where all fruit is polka-dotted. We use the humming to charge our batteries."

"That's wonderful!" Penelope exclaimed. "But why did you choose a pineapple disguise?"

"My mission report said to blend in with the most exotic, tropical flora," the voice said. "I clearly misunderstood the local environment."

Penelope laughed, a full, warm sound. She spent the rest of the evening listening to the robot scout pineapple practice its singing, completely delighted by her new, spotty, humming, slightly-confused friend. Mr. Splinter, meanwhile, was at home re-painting his fence an even more boring shade of beige.

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Spencer the squirrel was a creature of routine: up at dawn, two nuts for breakfast, and an hour of vigorous tail-brushing. But today, something was dreadfully wrong. When he tried to greet his friend, Penelope the pigeon, instead of a cheerful "Good morning!" what came out was a high-pitched, completely sideways squeak that sounded a lot like a rusty bicycle wheel.

"Did you just… talk in morse code?" Penelope cooed, tilting her head.

Spencer tried again, clearing his throat dramatically. "I'm having a problem with my SQUEAK!" The squeak was followed by a pop sound. He tried to explain his predicament, but everything he said came out as a mix of whistles, honks, and sounds only a foghorn would be proud of.

He visited Professor Algernon, a wise old tortoise who lived in a hat box and collected facts. "Professor," Spencer squeaked, pointing frantically to his mouth.

Professor Algernon slowly lowered his tiny spectacles. "Ah, yes. A classic case of Vocal-Shift-i-cus Nutterus. The tongue of the speaker has become slightly disconnected from the brain's speaking center and is sending all the words out sideways."

"Is there a cure?" Spencer managed to honk.

"Indeed," said the Professor. "You must consume three things that are known for their straightness: a perfectly straight pine needle, a very flat pancake, and a yawn that travels straight up to the sky."

Spencer went immediately to work. The pine needle was easy. He convinced a busy beaver to make him a perfectly flat pancake. Finally, he looked up at the sun and gave the biggest, stretchiest, most wonderfully straight yawn he could manage. His mouth opened wide, the yawn traveled all the way to the blue sky, and when he snapped his jaw shut, he said, in a perfectly normal, cheerful voice: "Hello!"

"It worked!" chirped Spencer, doing a little happy jig. Penelope was impressed. Professor Algernon simply adjusted his spectacles and made a note: Perfectly flat pancakes are also delicious.

Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!

Ms. Juniper was the head librarian at the Oakwood Public Library, and her most cherished secret was the existence of the "Story Whisperer." This tiny, magical creature, with wings like translucent pages and a voice like rustling leaves, lived in a cozy nook behind the atlas section. The Story Whisperer’s job was to flit through the library at night and whisper forgotten tales to the books, helping their words come alive for the readers the next day.

One morning, the library was strangely quiet. The books felt flat, and the air was devoid of the magical hum that usually filled the room. Ms. Juniper knew something was wrong. She looked in the Story Whisperer's nook, but it was empty. She was a librarian, but she was also a detective at heart. She put on her thinking spectacles and began her investigation.

The first clue was a single, sparkling feather. It led her to the biography section, where she found a note tucked inside a book about a famous adventurer. The note, written in a tiny, scrawling hand, said, "Gone to find a grander adventure! A 'real' story!" Ms. Juniper gasped. The Story Whisperer, whose name was Pipkin, had left!

Her investigation led her on a humorous chase through the library. In the children's section, she found a picture book about pirates that had been half-heartedly whispered. She could tell because only the first half of the book's pictures had come to life; the second half was still as flat as a pancake. It seemed Pipkin had been in a hurry. Next, she found a book on mythology where the mythical creatures were all in the wrong places. A unicorn was in a story about dragons, and a griffin was trying to ride a bicycle. It was utter chaos.

Finally, she found Pipkin in the travel section, looking a little defeated. He was trying to whisper to a large book about the Antarctic, but the words were just too cold and flat. "I wanted to find a new adventure!" Pipkin said, pouting. "But these stories are so big, they won't fit inside my whispers!"

Ms. Juniper smiled. "Pipkin, the grandest adventures are often the smallest ones. They're waiting right here, in every single book. You're the one who gives them life." She gently held out her hand, and Pipkin landed on her finger, a tear in his tiny eye.

Back in his nook, Pipkin started to whisper to all the books again. Soon, the library was filled with the familiar, happy hum of magical stories.

Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!

There once was a scarecrow named Stanley who was terrible at his job. He was not scary in the slightest. He wore a brightly colored patchwork coat, had a big, friendly grin drawn on his face, and his straw hat was always tipped at a jaunty, welcoming angle. The birds knew him, and they weren’t afraid. In fact, they loved Stanley. They would land on his shoulders, peck at the buttons on his coat, and listen to the quiet, gentle whispers he offered them.

“The corn is ripe today,” Stanley would whisper to a little sparrow. “Be careful of the field mice; they’re a bit grabby.”

The farmer, a kind but frustrated woman named Ms. Penny, would sigh as she looked out at her field. “Stanley, what am I going to do with you?” she’d say. “You’re a wonderful scarecrow, but you’re just not very good at being a scarecrow.”

Stanley would just sway gently in the breeze, a group of birds perched on his shoulders like he was a feathery coat rack. He couldn’t help it. His purpose was to scare, but his heart was just too friendly.

One day, a crow came to the field with a terrible problem. He had a shiny, sparkly object—a tiny, misplaced key—stuck in his beak. He had found it and couldn't get it out. He was desperate and flew to the one being he knew he could trust: Stanley.

Stanley listened to the crow’s frantic caws. He slowly moved his straw hands, a little clumsy but gentle, and carefully nudged the key from the crow’s beak. The crow cawed in relief and flew away, leaving the key on the ground.

Ms. Penny saw the whole thing from her porch. She came out to the field, looking at Stanley, then at the key. She looked at the other birds, perched on Stanley's hat, not bothering to take the corn. They were just sitting there, singing their little songs. Ms. Penny, a very clever farmer, realized something. Stanley wasn't a scarecrow; he was a friend. He wasn’t scaring the birds away, but he was making them happy, and maybe a happy bird is a well-fed bird who doesn't need to steal all the corn.

Ms. Penny picked up the key. "Stanley, you're not an ordinary scarecrow," she said. "You're a 'care-crow'!" She hung a little sign on him with that name. And from that day on, Stanley the Un-Scarecrow wasn’t a failure; he was the proud and beloved protector of the cornfield, and all the happy, well-fed birds who lived there.

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Oliver the otter loved to float on his back and juggle shiny river pebbles. He was generally a content fellow, except for one peculiar notion: he was absolutely convinced he was a porcelain teapot in disguise. He believed his nose was the spout and his tail was the handle.

"Good morning, Oliver!" called Rhonda the river turtle, paddling by.

Oliver gave a grand, dignified sniff. "I am not 'Oliver,' madam. I am Steamer, the finest teapot in all the river. Please do not jostle the handle," he said, flicking his tail.

Rhonda hid a smile. "Oh, my apologies, Steamer. Are you ready for some tea?"

"Alas," Oliver sighed dramatically, "My spout seems to be completely jammed with fish-scraps. A terrible design flaw in this model, I must say."

One afternoon, a large, fluffy fox named Finn came to the riverbank, looking very glum. "Oh, dear," Finn moaned. "I was supposed to bring a fancy, antique teapot to a garden party, and I dropped it! What will I do?"

Oliver, floating nearby, instantly saw his chance. "Sir!" he called, paddling over. "I may not be antique, but I am certainly a teapot! I can come to your party!"

Finn blinked. "You're... an otter."

"A teapot otter!" insisted Oliver. "I'm excellent at floating, and my juggling skills are legendary."

Finn, desperate, agreed. At the garden party, Oliver floated in the birdbath, holding his "handle" tail up high. Everyone stared. Then, a caterpillar accidentally tumbled off a leaf and landed right on Oliver's "spout" nose.  Oliver sneezed with a mighty A-CHOO!, which sent a spray of clean river water right into a daisy pot that desperately needed watering.

"Marvelous!" cried the hostess. "An instant, self-watering flowerpot! The most useful teapot I've ever seen!"

Oliver, realizing that being a useful otter was more fun than being a jammed teapot, decided he would keep the name Steamer, but only on weekends.

Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!

Duncan was a young, green dragon who lived at the top of a lonely hill. Unlike other dragons who hoarded gold and jewels, Duncan collected dandelions. Not just any dandelions, but the little white puffballs, which he stored in a massive, shimmering pile in his cave. He loved the way they floated.

One breezy Tuesday, Duncan realized his entire collection was missing! "My Puff-Piles!" he roared, a tiny puff of smoke escaping his nostrils. "Someone has stolen my delicate dandelion seeds!"

He flew down the hill to the village, landing near the well where Clara the chicken was getting a drink. "Clara! Did you see a villain with a bag of white fluff?"

Clara clucked wisely. "No villain, Duncan. But I saw an unusually large and fluffy sheep heading toward the meadow, looking like it had flown through a snowstorm."

Duncan flew to the meadow. There was Sheldon the sheep, looking immensely pleased with himself. His wool was completely covered, from his nose to his fluffy tail, in thousands of tiny, white dandelion seeds. He looked like a walking, woolly cloud.

"Sheldon!" Duncan huffed. "Did you take my dandelions?"

Sheldon happily munched a clover. "Well, I was walking past your cave, and there was a delightful breeze! The little white puffs were flying everywhere! It felt like I was being decorated by tiny, cheerful white lights! I thought they were a gift from the wind!"

Duncan looked at Sheldon. He was very fluffy and very proud of his new decorations. Duncan couldn't stay mad. "Alright, Sheldon. But when you shake them off, you have to collect them and bring them back."

Sheldon bleated happily. He shook his wool, and a massive, swirling cloud of dandelion seeds lifted into the air. Duncan, instead of gathering them, opened his mouth and laughed, sending a harmless, warm burst of flame right up into the air, making the seeds twinkle like tiny stars. He decided collecting them was less fun than watching them fly.

Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!

Rufus was a badger whose greatest talent was collecting unusual things. His favorite find was a single, enormous, fire-engine red rubber boot that he used as a cozy armchair. It had a wonderful, slightly dusty smell and fit him perfectly when he curled up for a nap.

One sunny afternoon, Rufus was enjoying a light doze in his boot when he was woken by a frantic tapping. It was Esmeralda the field mouse, bouncing up and down with worry. "Rufus! Rufus! Have you seen my extra-fluffy, rainbow-striped knitting yarn?"

Rufus yawned and stretched his striped paws. "Nope. Just me and my comfy boot, Esmeralda. Why don't you check your pantry?"

Esmeralda wrung her tiny paws. "I did! But my Cousin Chuckles is coming to visit, and he only accepts gifts knitted from that specific yarn! He's very particular about his mittens."

Suddenly, a strange Zzzzzzt sound came from inside the boot. Rufus carefully peered down the opening. Sitting right in the toe, completely surrounded by a mess of rainbow fluff, was a tiny, bewildered beetle wearing a pair of half-knitted rainbow mittens. It was trying to use a blade of grass to untangle the mess, making the Zzzzzzt sound as it wiggled.

"Aha!" cried Rufus. "The boot thief! Wait, no, the yarn napper!"

The beetle, whose name was Chester, looked up with big, glossy eyes. "I'm dreadfully sorry," Chester buzzed sheepishly. "I found this lovely rainbow cloud, and I was trying to knit my own little cocoon! I thought the boot was an excellent place for quiet crafting."

Esmeralda giggled. "Well, your color choice is excellent, Chester, but that yarn is needed for Cousin Chuckles' mittens!"

Rufus gently scooped Chester out. Esmeralda happily retrieved her yarn, though she let Chester keep the tiny, slightly lopsided rainbow mittens he'd already finished. Rufus settled back into his boot-chair, deciding that finding odd objects was always less complicated than finding stolen knitting supplies.