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Clive the crocodile lived in a small, cozy swamp and possessed a dream as delicate as spun sugar: he wanted to be a famous, dignified oboist. He practiced daily on his antique oboe, which he had affectionately named Octavius. Unfortunately, Octavius was not cooperating. Instead of the soulful, reedy tones Clive imagined, every attempt produced a sound that could only be described as a cross between a startled seagull and a rusty hinge—a resounding "SQUONK!"

One evening, during a particularly frustrating rehearsal, Agnes, a tiny, sensible turtle who lived on a floating lily pad nearby, paddled over.

"Clive," she said, peering up at the crocodile with concern, "that last note sounded as if you had swallowed a bicycle horn and then sneezed. Are you quite well?"

"It's Octavius!" Clive wailed, holding the instrument dramatically to the swamp sky. "I follow the music! I use the proper embouchure! But all I get is the mournful Squonk of despair!"

Agnes, who had a knack for solving tiny mysteries, pointed a tiny claw at the top of the oboe. "Is that," she asked slowly, "a very small, very dusty acorn jammed inside the bell?"

Clive lowered the instrument and peered into the opening. He poked a careful, enormous claw inside. Tink. A perfectly preserved, glossy brown acorn tumbled out.

"Oh," Clive whispered, his cheeks flushing a faint swamp-green. "I wondered where my snack went yesterday. I must have tucked it away for safekeeping."

Agnes simply shook her head and paddled back to her lily pad. Clive raised the oboe to his lips, took a deep breath, and played. The sound that emerged was a smooth, clear, and perfectly dignified Middle C. It was still a little reedy, but it was certainly not a squonk.

Clive smiled, a very large, toothy, musical smile. He decided to stick to grapes and plums for future snacks, far, far away from his musical instruments.