Sign up to save your podcasts
Or
Share The Talking Turnip
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Or
The Talking Turnip
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!
Old Man Fitzwilliam, a farmer whose beard was as long and tangled as his prize-winning beanstalk, was having a rather ordinary Tuesday. He was weeding his turnip patch, humming a tuneless little ditty, when he heard a voice.
“Psst! Over here, you lanky human!”
Fitzwilliam paused, looking around. Only a scarecrow and a particularly grumpy-looking cow were in sight. He went back to weeding.
“Ahem! Yes, you! The one with the dirt on his nose!”
Fitzwilliam straightened up, peering at his handiwork. He had indeed gotten dirt on his nose. He rubbed it off. “Who’s there?” he grumbled, suspecting the local mischievous magpies.
“It’s me, you nitwit! Down here!”
Fitzwilliam looked down and nearly fell over in surprise. One of his turnips, a particularly plump and purple specimen, had two tiny eyes blinking at him, and a mouth that was distinctly moving.
“Good heavens!” Fitzwilliam exclaimed. “A talking turnip!”
“Well, don’t sound so surprised,” the turnip sniffed. “You’d talk too if you were stuck in the ground all day listening to you hum that dreadful tune.”
Fitzwilliam was flabbergasted. “I… I beg your pardon! My humming is perfectly delightful!”
“It sounds like a rusty gate creaking in a hurricane,” the turnip retorted. “Anyway, I have a very important message for you.”
“A message?” Fitzwilliam asked, still reeling.
“Yes! From the other vegetables! We’ve had a meeting, and we’ve decided your watering schedule is all wrong. And your compost heap smells like… well, like a compost heap. And the carrots want more sunshine, and the potatoes want less philosophical ponderings from you when you’re digging them up.”
Fitzwilliam stared. This was an unprecedented level of vegetable insolence. “Philosophical ponderings? I was merely wondering about the meaning of life while unearthing spuds!”
“Precisely!” the turnip said, its little mouth twitching with what looked suspiciously like a smirk. “Also, we demand more classical music. The radishes are particularly fond of opera.”
Fitzwilliam spent the rest of the day in a state of amused bewilderment. He tried to ignore the turnip, but it kept offering unsolicited advice on everything from his fashion choices to the best way to deter slugs.
That night, as he sat down to a dinner of… well, turnip soup, he couldn’t help but chuckle. He even put on some opera for the radishes, just in case. The next morning, the talking turnip was silent. Perhaps it had run out of things to complain about, or perhaps it had simply decided to go back to being a normal, non-opinionated turnip. Fitzwilliam missed it, just a little. And he secretly wondered if the carrots were really enjoying that sunshine.
View all episodes
By Matthew MitchellVisit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!
Old Man Fitzwilliam, a farmer whose beard was as long and tangled as his prize-winning beanstalk, was having a rather ordinary Tuesday. He was weeding his turnip patch, humming a tuneless little ditty, when he heard a voice.
“Psst! Over here, you lanky human!”
Fitzwilliam paused, looking around. Only a scarecrow and a particularly grumpy-looking cow were in sight. He went back to weeding.
“Ahem! Yes, you! The one with the dirt on his nose!”
Fitzwilliam straightened up, peering at his handiwork. He had indeed gotten dirt on his nose. He rubbed it off. “Who’s there?” he grumbled, suspecting the local mischievous magpies.
“It’s me, you nitwit! Down here!”
Fitzwilliam looked down and nearly fell over in surprise. One of his turnips, a particularly plump and purple specimen, had two tiny eyes blinking at him, and a mouth that was distinctly moving.
“Good heavens!” Fitzwilliam exclaimed. “A talking turnip!”
“Well, don’t sound so surprised,” the turnip sniffed. “You’d talk too if you were stuck in the ground all day listening to you hum that dreadful tune.”
Fitzwilliam was flabbergasted. “I… I beg your pardon! My humming is perfectly delightful!”
“It sounds like a rusty gate creaking in a hurricane,” the turnip retorted. “Anyway, I have a very important message for you.”
“A message?” Fitzwilliam asked, still reeling.
“Yes! From the other vegetables! We’ve had a meeting, and we’ve decided your watering schedule is all wrong. And your compost heap smells like… well, like a compost heap. And the carrots want more sunshine, and the potatoes want less philosophical ponderings from you when you’re digging them up.”
Fitzwilliam stared. This was an unprecedented level of vegetable insolence. “Philosophical ponderings? I was merely wondering about the meaning of life while unearthing spuds!”
“Precisely!” the turnip said, its little mouth twitching with what looked suspiciously like a smirk. “Also, we demand more classical music. The radishes are particularly fond of opera.”
Fitzwilliam spent the rest of the day in a state of amused bewilderment. He tried to ignore the turnip, but it kept offering unsolicited advice on everything from his fashion choices to the best way to deter slugs.
That night, as he sat down to a dinner of… well, turnip soup, he couldn’t help but chuckle. He even put on some opera for the radishes, just in case. The next morning, the talking turnip was silent. Perhaps it had run out of things to complain about, or perhaps it had simply decided to go back to being a normal, non-opinionated turnip. Fitzwilliam missed it, just a little. And he secretly wondered if the carrots were really enjoying that sunshine.