The Book Delivery Squirrel: A Story for Kids

This is Rhea. Welcome to Little Stories for Tiny People. I have a very important announcement. So important, I believe it calls for trumpets. I have a guest. I know it's been a while. Booking guests to come on this show is just not as easy as you may think. They're always so busy with their food scavenging, their fur styling appointments, their hibernation. Ugh, it is nearly impossible to find a creature to visit my tiny studio, who is a. Small enough not to disturb my tower of breakable plates. Two capable of providing thoughtful, constructive feedback on my stories. And thirdly, available. But I did it. I found the perfect guest to sit in on today's story. Please give a hearty welcome to Lucille the fly. Come on in Lucille. Oh, um, wait a second. Don't fly up there. In my excitement, I think I forgot to warn Lucille about the spiders who live in the uppermost corners of my studio. Do not eat my guest. Lucille. Okay, come down. Lucille, why don't you land on this piece of stale toast? There you go. Just stay on the toast. She says okay. All right, let's get to our story. It's called the book delivery squirrel. Take it away along. Remember, there are no pictures. You have to imagine the pictures in your mind. You can imagine them however you want. Okay, here we go. Music Wes had never planned to become a book delivery squirrel. How could he when he'd never heard of such a thing? Neither had his elder brother, Chuck. Books? Seriously, books? Chuck had never read a book and made it known he never planned to. Wes himself was not much of a reader. He appreciated a good story, but he thought of himself as more of a doer. None of that had any real bearing on the situation because Wes literally fell into book delivery by accident. He'd been on his way home from yet another dismal interview at the Walnut Shelling Factory. It was dark by that time and the moon was invisible. He could hardly see the outline of his paw. In front of his face and he fell directly into a hole in the ground. Thankfully, the hole, despite its darkness, did not raise any alarms. Nothing jumped out at him. So he decided to get some sleep and find a way out in the morning. At dawn, Wes was awakened by the sound of someone sniffing. Then came a voice. Lars, is that you? Wes lifted himself and peered around, yawning. It took him a moment to remember where he was and how he'd gotten there. With sunlight filtering down from above, he finally got a look at the hole into which he'd fallen. It was filled with books. Everywhere he looked, there were books in neatly stacked boxes and crates. In fact, Wes saw that he'd slept curled up on a pile of paperbacks. Lars, you need to get a move on. These books won't deliver themselves. And even though Wes was certain he was not Lars, and the comment about the books needing to be delivered could not possibly apply to him, he felt a measure of urgency. He had to get out of that hole. That's when he noticed the latter. You are not Lars. Observed the astonished looking squirrel who'd called into the hole. She sniffed at the air. I knew it. I said to myself, that squirrel smells nothing like Lars. Squirrels have keen noses. Wes was about to apologize for not being Lars and to explain why he'd been in the hole. But as soon as he opened his mouth, the squirrel waved him off. It's all right. She said, studying him. But, uh, she glanced around at the surrounding trees. Looks like Lars isn't here. How do you feel about delivering these books? Lars never did show up to reclaim his job. Apparently, he skipped forests and became a toadlass-or. At least, that's what Wes heard from Harriet, the squirrel who gave him Lars's job, those many moons ago. Ever since, Wes had delivered books for pages in the Pines bookshop. It was an enviable gig, and Wes often thought of the serendipity that had allowed him to fall into the position. And not only because the job was delightful, also because of the books themselves. When a squirrel is surrounded by a particular thing, day in and day out, it is not uncommon for him to develop strong feelings about that thing. For example, a squirrel who works at a pecan shallowery might develop an aversion to pecans. He might even stop eating pecans altogether. He might say, if I see one more pecan, well, you get the idea. Similarly, a squirrel might get a job weaving river grasses into rugs. She might start out loving the look of those rugs. Perhaps, she has one of those rugs in the entryway of her treehouse. But at a certain point, after making hundreds and hundreds of those woven rugs, she gets home, takes one look at the one covering her floor, rolls it up and tosses it out the window. But it can go the other way. Occasionally, instead of developing a distaste for the object of a squirrel's work, he develops a fondness for it. Sometimes, even a love. That is what happened to Wes. After spending so many of his working hours surrounded by books, he grew to love them. He loved the faint, pine wood scent of freshly printed books, as well as the lived in, rabbit-eared pages of used books. He delivered both kinds. He once found a well-loved recipe book in one of his crates that contained dozens of faintly scribbled notes in the margins, recommending ingredient substitutions, and taking issue with the methods promoted by the book's author. Wes spent an absorbing 40 minutes one morning flipping through all 602 pages, chuckling now and then at the cantankerousness of the mysterious notes scribbler. In some ways, his fondness for books made him worse at his job. Sometimes, he'd crack open a promising-looking title on his lunch break, stretching out on a tree branch with the book on his lap and a pouch of seeds at the ready, unblissful afternoons in the woods. When the sun was warm but not blazing, he'd been known to fall asleep in that position, delaying his deliveries for the rest of the day. Occasionally, if there was a large creature blocking a trail he needed, he had to keep to well-worn trails because of his book cart. He'd curl up in the corner of his cart and read. Once, there was an elk sleeping right in the middle of the path. Wes had spent two hours absorbed in an adventure story before being startled by a timid voice. Excuse me, um, could I possibly get through? Wes had looked up to see that the elk was gone and that he himself was blocking the way of a rabbit riding a tricycle. But there were ways that Wes's love of books made him much better at his job. Mainly, it made him excellent at recommending books to his customers. Now, Wes, I loved the last book I got from you, the Mystery of Whisperly Mansion. I'm desperate to read something similar. Hold on, I've got just the thing. Here, the Knitting Circle series. It's about a cat who joins a knitting circle, but the knitting circle also solves mysteries. Wes, I don't know what I've done without you. Well, I do know. I'd be between books, which is never a good place to be. Mind you, this was not part of Wes's job description. Harriet, who ran the Pages in the Pine's Bookshop alongside her husband, Cliff, had described the job succinctly. You'll get a clipboard each morning with your list of customer orders along with the addresses. This is your cart. Fill it with books every morning. Return it empty each evening. We keep things simple around here. Oh, and make sure to pull the cover over the book den. Lars could never seem to remember that part. The book den was the endearing name given for the deep dark hole filled with crates of books into which Wes had once fallen. But Wes was endlessly grateful to Lars for never remembering to cover it. If he had, Wes would not have stumbled into this unexpected livelihood he so loved. Over the course of five years, he had grown into a very reliable employee. There were the usual little hiccups that came with a job such as this. Rain was the most frequent problem. When the first drops fell from the sky, Wes had to rush to pull a tarp over his cart so as not to allow any of the books to be ruined. That was unusual, though. Mostly, the job was straightforward and the days went smoothly. Wes never had any trouble fulfilling the basic requirements. Fill the cart with books in the morning. Return it empty in the evening. But on one clear evening in mid-autumn, after Wes had finished his deliveries for the day, after he had checked the final customer name and order off his list, he made a startling discovery. There was an additional book in his cart. He nearly missed it because its color almost perfectly matched the bottom of the crate in which it sat, and the text and the cover was faded. Another squirrel, possibly Lars, we'll never know, might not have let out a small gasp upon seeing it, might not have recognized it immediately for what it was. A collector's edition, rare, ancient, a beautiful brick of a thing on the history of trees. But Wes did recognize it. The history of trees was one of his favorite topics. In fact, he'd heard of this very book. He had asked Harriet about it a few months back, hoping, perhaps, as a bookseller, she could pull some strings to acquire a copy. She'd simply cast him a curious look, clocked her tongue, and said, It's been out of print for some time. Very hard to find. Whichever pages in the pines customer had ordered this book would certainly notice it missing. Whoever it was was likely waiting patiently at the door, expecting it to be delivered at any moment. I say patiently because creatures who have a deep interest in the history of trees tend to be patient sort of creatures. Wes flipped through the day's pages on his clipboard, searching for the title. It has to be here, but it wasn't. He went through the list another three times to be certain, running a paw beneath each book title. Huh. Wes glanced up from his clipboard. He was stopped on a narrow trail amidst a dense area of the forest, thick with tall pines. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees. His list of deliveries for the day was always sorted by location. Harriet did her best to arrange things, but it was Wes who created a daily map for himself, with his last delivery leaving him close to pages in the pines. He was near it now. A few more steps on the trail, and it would come into view. But he had never shown up with an undelivered book at the end of a work day. He had never returned anything but an empty cart, and he was not about to now. Wes turned his cart around in the trail and headed back the way he'd come. The history of fleas, you say? I'm not sure I would like to read that. Trees, Mrs. Parsnip. Oh, that does sound interesting, but it wasn't me who ordered it. Thank you, Mrs. Parsnip. Sorry to bother. It's no bother. I love when you stop by, Wesley, and I'm already hooked on the book you brought me earlier today. I'm glad to hear that. Enjoy your book. Oh, I will. Wes headed down the ladder for Mrs. Parsnip's treehouse and got out his clipboard. When he delivered a book to a customer, he always put a tidy checkmark beside each name. For the last hour, he'd been adding strike-throughs as he went back to each address to inquire as to whether the customer had also ordered the rare book left behind in his cart. After an hour, he'd crossed out six names. By then, it was nearing twilight. Harriet and Cliff would be making sure any books animals had moved were put back in their proper places, putting out the candles that sat in the windows, flipping the sign on the door from open to closed, and heading upstairs to their treehouse above the shop. They would not, Wes knew, be worrying about his absence. Back when Wes was new to the job, he had made a point to find either Harriet or Cliff at the end of his workday after he'd returned the empty cart to its resting spot underneath a shrub behind the shop. All finished up, he would say. For the first few months, Harriet would reply, Thank you, Wes. Get some rest. If it was Cliff, he'd say, See you in the morning then. But one evening after Wes had been in the job for three seasons, he'd said, all finished up and Harriet said simply, Wes, I appreciate seeing you each evening, but I want you to know you don't have to stop in every night. You're welcome to leave the cart and head home. Wes had smiled and nodded, understanding Harriet's meaning. She and Cliff trusted him. Since then, Wes had often waved goodnight through the window of the bookshop after leaving the empty cart. But sometimes the owners were occupied when he passed by, and so he ambled home without interrupting them. It felt good to be trusted. And so, Wes knew that though he was late getting back, no one would notice or mind if they did, which gave him a bit more time to find the intended owner of the book. Up to that point, Wes had been revisiting every customer on his list. But with the sun sinking in the sky, he became more strategic. He knew most of his customers well, having gotten to know them over the years. He scanned the list and immediately crossed out three names. Mr. Humphrey, a badger who walked with an elegant wooden cane, only read books about architecture. Eleanor Squirrel was an accomplished knitter. She exclusively ordered books filled with knitting patterns. And then there was Georgina Turtle, who he'd only ever known to purchase cookbooks. That left three names. Wes went first to the most promising, Gerald Mouse, a history buff who last month ordered a volume on the history of hats. Gerald yawned heavily as he opened the door to his small burrow. Wes. That you? I woke you up. I'm sorry. No, no. Just resting my eyes. He offered Wes a cup of tea. No, I shouldn't have even bothered you. But he had not ordered the book. Looks interesting though, but the owner will love it once you find out who it is. Next, Wes went to the home of Delilah Chipmunk. This time, he could see through her small window that she was awake, sitting by candlelight, reading. But she was not the owner of the book either. I muller into historical fiction, to be honest. When Wes stepped away from Delilah's door, night had truly fallen. Above was a deep, blackened purple. Stars dotted the moonless sky. There was a single name left on Wes's list. And to what do I owe the pleasure of a second visit in a single day for my favorite book Delivery Squirrel? Boomed Harold T. Muskrat, one of Page's in the Pines' oldest and most loyal customers, who, when Wes had first taken over the job, had had many things to say about Lars. Always late, that one. Harold always smiled broadly when he opened the door to see Wes on the stoop with a book he'd ordered, and he smiled broadly when he saw Wes on the stoop with the left behind book on the history of trees. But it was not his. Wish I could help you, Wesley. Thank you for your time, Mr. Muskrat. It was a cool evening, and there was a chill in the breeze that swept through the forest, causing the needles on the pines to shiver in concert. Wes held the rare unclaimed book beneath one arm and pulled his cart behind him with the other, yawning. He'd crossed off every name on his list of customers, and it was too late to double check anything. There is a sense of relief in knowing that there is nothing more you can possibly do at the very end of the day, that it is necessary to set down unfinished work and rest until tomorrow. As Wes briskly wheeled his cart on the trail, which was illuminated in soft starlight from above, he felt that sense of relief, but he also felt unsettled. He wasn't used to ending the day with loose ends, such as this book. He wondered if perhaps Harriet had simply made an error, forgotten to add the customer name and title to his list. Or, it struck him then, or perhaps there was a paper he had missed in the book den. Wes returned the cart, empty to its spot behind pages in the pines, then, with the tree history book still in his grasp, walked the short distance to the book den, uncovered it, and slipped down the ladder. Without the help of the moon, it was quite dark down there, and Wes had to wait for his eyes to adjust before rifling through the small filing cabinet, filled with customer records, orders, and receipts. He was usually asleep by this hour, and every few moments he was overtaken by a yawn. Eventually, he flipped through the whole filing cabinet. Nothing, no record of an order for the book, huh? Wes glanced at the ladder, imagined the walk home, just thinking of it made him more tired. He slid to the floor of the book den, surrounded by crates and crates of books, some of which he'd deliver in the morning. The book on the history of trees lay in his lap. He closed his eyes, intending to rest them for just a minute, before rallying for the trip home, but he didn't open them until he was awakened at dawn by the sound of someone sniffing. Pfft, Wes? Is that you? Wes blinked against the dim sun, and shielded his eyes as he peered up at Harriet, who stood overlooking the edge of the book den. Ah, that is you. Well, come on up. These books won't deliver themselves. Wes grabbed the book he'd failed to deliver, and clambered up the ladder. Good thing it didn't rain last night. Wes thought to himself, as he reached solid ground. He intended to apologize for forgetting to cover the book den, and for sleeping in it, and for failing to deliver the book in his grasp. Harriet, I'm sorry, but Harriet waved him off. It's all right, she said. Then she flashed a rare grin. Well, what did you think of it? Wes was still groggy, and he had a crick in his tail from his awkward sleeping position. And now, in addition, he was confused. He thought he must have missed something, or misheard. What do I think of it? Harriet laughed. Yes, did it live up to your expectations? Wes was more puzzled than ever. He glanced down at the book den. To be honest, it was lousy. At this, Harriet's eyes widened. Lousy. Yes, it was rather uncomfortable. Now she looked confused. Uncomfortable. Yes, and I have a crick in my tail, and- Wes. Yes? What are you talking about? The book den. It's very uncomfortable to sleep in. Wes took in Harriet's amused expression. And that's not what you were asking about, were you? No. Harriet looked down and pointed a paw at the book in Wes's grip. I wanted to know what you thought of the book we got you. At Harriet's insistence, Wes opened the front cover to find a paw written in inscription. Wes, thank you for five years of exceptional service, Harriet and Cliff. Wes couldn't stop smiling at the kind gesture, at the fact that he'd worried over this book for no reason at all, and the fact that it was his. This beautiful, collectible book was truly his. He flipped through the thin pages, noting the ornate little illustrations that marked each new chapter. Thank you. Thank you so much. It's the very least we could do. Wes knew Harriet to be a squirrel of few words. The conversation was largely over, but he did have one question. Why didn't you gift wrap it? I had no idea it was for me. Harriet gave him a rye grin. We keep things simple around here. She padded him on the shoulder, then headed off to open the bookshop. Wes had to restrain himself from reading his new book. Instead, he headed off to retrieve his cart. He'd return to the book den, fill his cart with the day's deliveries. At lunchtime, he would lounge on his favorite branch, reading about the history of trees. That evening, he would return his empty cart to its place beneath the shrub. So Lucille, what did you think of the story? Lucille? Oh, oh no, she's not on the toast. Why did she leave the toast? Lucille? Oh, she's flying near the Studio Spiders. I'm gonna have to get her out of here. You know, she looks cheerful even as she flies dangerously close to the Studio Spiders' webs, so I'm pretty sure she enjoyed the story. I hope you did too. Now I gotta run. Little stories for tiny people is written, performed, and produced by me, Rhea Pector. Lucille, go out the door. My in-house tech director, Peter K, runs my website and puts my stories on the internet for all of you to enjoy. Lucille, I'm sweating at you for your own good. There you go. Thank you to my Little Stories Premium subscribers for supporting the show, and thank you to long-time listener Alon for the super important reminder message at the beginning, and thank you, as always, for listening in.