Mr. Beetle Branches Out

This is Ria. Welcome to Little Stories for Tiny People. The other day I was touring a lollipop factory. When I ran into an old friend of mine I used to work with at a Weave Your Own Shoelaces shop. It's not there anymore. I guess no one wants to put in the time and effort to weave their own shoelaces these days. Anyway, my friend was filling me in on all the interesting things he'd done since the shop closed down. When I noticed a beetle on his jacket, it was a large beetle. And just as I was about to interrupt my friend's story to tell him about it, the beetle flew off his lapel and landed on my shoelace. Such truth be told, I did not weave myself. Anyway, as I stared down at the large beetle who promptly took flight, buzzing up and away into the lollipop factory, a very specific thought popped into my head. What has Mr. Beetle been up to? I apologized to my friend, promised to send him a fruit basket, and literally ran home to write this story. Let's hear it. It's called Mr. Beetle, branches out. Take it away, Declan. Remember, there are no pictures. You'll have to imagine the pictures in your mind. You can imagine them however you want. OK, here we go. It was a mild Wednesday evening on the 25th branch, an old Mr. Beetle legendary bootmaker turned late in life storyteller, made his way. Marily? Oh so, Marily, to the spot on the other end of the branch, where he hosted his weekly Wednesday night story time for young bugs. Mr. Beetle was in such good spirits. He even hummed as he skittered along. You see, a storm had rumbled through the forest just that morning, a ferocious, thunderous storm that had shaken the trees and stripped off the weakest leaves from the branches. But it had passed. The forest always twinkled after a storm, and not only that, Mr. Beetle had gotten past another storm, a veritable storm of problems affecting his story time over the last few weeks. For one thing, the young bugs in his audience had been bringing more and more disruptive items to story time. Flickety little toys. Pinwheels they'd spin with abandoned as Mr. Beetle tried to focus on his narrative arts. A noxious hats that became trendy seemingly overnight. It got so bad that Mr. Beetle established what he called his confiscation closet in a tree hollow near his home, where he stored things he had taken from unruly young bugs. I'll take that. Thank you very much. His confiscation closet was soon filled to the brim, with dozens of objects that threatened the tranquility of his storytelling efforts. He did go slightly overboard. Once he went so far as to pluck a distracting pair of neon yellow spectacles off a young bug's face. Hey, I can't see without those. Last week was the final straw. He'd begun his story beautifully plotted, if he did say so himself, when he saw a terrifying and truly bizarre looking mouse at the back of the audience. Mr. Beetle was so startled, he stumbled over his words, and the aunt said to the lady bug, I have no use for your fancy parties anyway. I'm more than happy to sit here and eat a mouse. I mean a cheese puff, which made the young bugs burst into uncontrolled laughter. From his spot on his little stage, Mr. Beetle watched with growing confusion, then vexation as the mouse, or more accurately, mouse, costume, toppled over and three young bugs tumbled out of it, doubled over in laughter. Did you see his face? Did every beetle see his face? He said he, he said the aunt would eat a mouse. Mr. Beetle swiftly confiscated the mouse costume to be stored away in his closet. Beetle then delivered what he believed to be a potent and adequately stern speech regarding story time disruptions. And another thing. Before giving a few hearty harrumpes, nodding at Gwen, his ever loyal assistant, and proceeding with his story now then, as I was saying. The aunt insisted he would happily eat cheese puffs on his own, rather than attend a fancy ladybug party. Mr. Beetle felt as though that storm, too, had finally passed. But he was even more pleased with himself for solving another problem that had been plaguing story time and Gwen in particular for weeks. As you may know, Gwen, a beetle herself, had been Mr. Beetle's story time assistant since a very beginning, and she knew just the right music to play. And Mrs. Turnip sat down on the edge of the pond and cried. And just the right sound effects to inject, to bring Mr. Beetle's stories to life. Then Mr. Frogweather kicked the hornet's nest as hard as he could. But unlike Gwen, who did not appear to have aged a day in all those years, the music player had worn down quite a bit and had gone, well, slightly haywire. There is the time five weeks ago when the button that usually made an owl sound suddenly started making an entirely different sound. Old Mrs. Owl flew through the trees, searching for a soft place to land. I said old Mrs. Owl. There was the time four weeks ago when Mr. Beetle came to a particularly emotional moment in a story. After so many misunderstandings and mistaken identities, the friends finally reunited once again with a hug and a jovial slap on the back and made their way home, side by side. Ah, Gwen. But Gwen wasn't the problem. It was the music player. The button wires were all getting crossed. It would spit out sound effects at random moments, play the wrong songs, ruin the mood of Mr. Beetle's stories. Gwen was probably the most patient, most agreeable beetle to ever live. She didn't complain once. Instead she offered mild, optimistic comments. It does make your stories more surprising. But Mr. Beetle knew this was a problem that needed solving. He flew to a different forest to a well-known music shop at the base of an old oak tree. And there he found a truly magnificent music player. Gwen will love it. Of course Mr. Beetle tested out all the buttons. It was perfect. Till the store employee, a board looking stick bug, told him it couldn't be delivered for three whole weeks. Three weeks? That's preposterous. I'd like to speak to the store manager, young lad. I am the manager. But three weeks? Three weeks? Gwen had dawned on him what was coming up in precisely three weeks. Three weeks? Mr. Beetle repeated to the bewildered looking manager. It's perfect. A great. The bug said and had Mr. Beetle sign some paperwork. Mr. Beetle peered at the documents through his spectacles, scanning each line. Sir, it's all just boilerplate stuff. If you'll just initial here and sign at the bottom, we'll be good. All right. Mr. Beetle headed home with a skitter in his step. How wonderful. How serendipitous. The music player would be delivered to the 25th branch on a Wednesday in three weeks, just before story time. On Gwen's birthday. So now you understand why Mr. Beetle made his way so merrily down the 25th branch to his story time for which he'd become so well known. He saw Gwen up ahead, talking quietly with a bug wearing a uniform vest in the middle of blocking the path with a makeshift fence. Mr. Beetle was confused, but smiled all the same. Closing the pattern and crossing, are you? Gwen turned to look at Mr. Beetle. She was not frowning. Gwen rarely frowned, but her smile was fainter than usual, which told Mr. Beetle something was off. Gwen confirmed it by saying, this gentleman is closing the branch. The merriment fell away from Mr. Beetle, like leaves from an autumn tree. Closing. But, but, Mr. Beetle sputtered, but the uniformed bug simply held up a foot. Now sir, as I was telling this kind Beetle lady, the branch bureau is required to shut down a branch when a hazard presents itself. A hazard like that presented by the branch above this one. At this, the bug pointed up at the 26th branch. Oh no. Mr. Beetle murmured, must have been struck by the storm. Gwen said, the 26th branch directly above had cracked and now dangled ominously at an unnatural angle. But it looks like it will fall beside our branch, doesn't it? It won't hit the 25th. Mr. Beetle shot a questioning look at Gwen, who shrugged. Could be sir, certainly could be, but we have to close this branch until that branch comes down. Policies policy. Mr. Beetle's mind went to the numerous young bugs who'd begin showing up for his story in an hour's time. Until the branch comes down. Mr. Beetle peered up at the 26th branch, but that could be any minute. It looks like it's hanging on by a thread. Gwen nodded in agreement. Sir, looks to me deceiving. Mr. Beetle's mind flashed to the terrifying mouse who'd turned out to be a trio of trouble-makers. Indeed, it looks can be deceiving, he said with a nod. But well, how long might this take? I ask because, well, you may have heard of me. I host a weekly story time for young bugs just a bit further down this branch you see and tonight. Mr. Beetle trailed off upon seeing the uniformed bug shaking his head apologetically. Sir, unfortunately, I do not believe this hazardous branch above us will come down in time for your song and answer, teen. Story time. A very popular story time. Mr. Beetle glanced at Gwen and she gave him an encouraging nod. Right. Look, sir, in similar situations in the past, it's taken up to three full. Mr. Beetle could hardly contain himself. Three full hours. Up until that moment, he had held out hope that his story time might go on. Now his hopes were dashed, like salt, over an unfortunate snail. They were dashed further when the bug said, actually, in the past, it's taken up to three full weeks and two days. The world started spinning as the words echoed in Mr. Beetle's head three full weeks and two days. One's birthdays in three weeks. Mr. Beetle thought. Meanwhile, ever practical, Gwen said, what if the 26th branch could be knocked loose or weighed down in some way to make it fall more quickly? Yeah, we've been tossing bird seed on it. The bug said, if we get enough birds to land, it could… Birds? They're hardly any heavier than beetles. What do you suggest, sir? Cats? The bug laughed hardily as if this were an incredibly funny joke. Mr. Beetle did not laugh. He was positively flummoxed. Not only would his story times be disrupted, so too might the delivery of Gwen's new music player on her birthday. Mr. Beetle was about to give a hearty hurrump when Gwen interrupted him. Well, we can take the story time to a different spot until the 26th branch is cleared. I know a nice spot in the 28th branch that would be lovely. You're right, Gwen. Let's make the best of it. What would I do without you? Gwen swiftly rode out a sign and posted it near the blocked path, letting the young bugs know to head to the 28th branch for story time that evening. It was, indeed, a lovely spot. And the story time, though less well attended than usual, went smoothly, for the most part. Mr. Beetle only had to confiscate a single item, a large butterfly shaped balloon, a young bug bobbed up and down on a string. Must not have heard my speech the other day. Mr. Beetle muttered as he carried it off. Hey, hey, that was my balloon. Aside from that, the only other issue was the music player. And then, Mr. Goat stepped on a toad. Quack, quack, quackity, quack. Oh dear. Every time the music player malfunctioned, Mr. Beetle was reminded of how badly the new one was needed, which meant he needed the 26th branch to fall down. All that week, Mr. Beetle visited the barrier on the 25th branch and peered up at the branch above it. It did not budge. Mr. Beetle imagined the beautiful new music player showing up with no one to receive it. Anyone order this state-of-the-art music player with perfectly functioning buttons? Anyone? Anyone? Hello? The following Tuesday, Mr. Beetle met Gwen at their usual spot for tea. It was quite close to the blocked-off area of the 25th branch, and Mr. Beetle spent much of their time together glancing in that direction. He was so distracted, he nearly missed a very important comment from Gwen. I think I'll go tomorrow and have a look. Uh-huh. I admit I'm curious what's available these days. Music players have come a long way in recent years. Right. Right. Hold on. Did you say, music players? Yes. I'm going to look for a new one tomorrow. The one we have is certainly not going to hold on much longer. But uh-uh, wait. Uh. Mr. Beetle racked his brain. In the end, he said the very first thing to enter his head, which is rarely a good idea. The music player we have, yes. It adds flair. Gwen took a sip of her tea and blanked. Flair. And like you said, it adds an element of surprise. What's coming next? No Beetle knows. Gwen did not look convinced. She sat down her tea and looked at Mr. Beetle. She gave a small, solemn sigh. Huh. Oh, how that sigh seemed to puncture Mr. Beetle's exoskeleton. He longed to tell Gwen about the new music player he'd ordered. No. He told himself, wait. Get the branch down. Save it for her birthday. Uh, no need to rush. Mr. Beetle said, wait till things settle down with this whole branch business. Well, all right. Gwen said, and they clinked their tea cups together. The following evening, Mr. Beetle and Gwen met up at the lovely spot on the 25th branch to hold story time. But it had been rented out for a fancy ladybug party. Those ladybugs and their lavish parties. They're just beetles like the rest of us. How rumble. Come now. We'll find somewhere else. The somewhere else they found was a dimly lit tree hollow a little further up the tree. Gwen posted a few signs directing the young bugs, and a handful of them showed up. Things got off to a good start, especially since with the dim lighting, Gwen could not even see the buttons on her music player, and therefore did not press them. But then, Mr. Beetle saw something that made his exoskeleton grow hot with annoyance. There, hanging upside down at the back of the little gathering, was what had to be several young bugs in a strange looking bat costume. Oh, I see exactly what this is. Mr. Beetle said, interrupting his own story to go stomping to the last row. But when he tugged at one of the bats' ears, he found that it was, in fact, a real bat. The bat went fluttering wildly, screeching as it flew around the tree hollow, then escaped into the night air. The young bugs fell out of their chairs laughing. How rumble. Poored rain the next few days. Mr. Beetle stayed at home, polishing his boots. Sure that the rain would bring down the 26th branch, but when the rain stopped, and Mr. Beetle skittered down to look, he saw it had not budged. Neither had the fence blocking the way to his story time stage. I'll have to take matters into my own feet. Mr. Beetle flew back to the music store where he'd purchased the new player. Young lad, I need to change the delivery date for a music player I purchased here recently. But the bug tossed a packet of documents onto the desk. Sorry, sir. Can't change the delivery date. It was all in the papers you signed. You know, sir, you should really read documents before you sign them. Mr. Beetle was about to ask to speak to the manager before he remembered this bug was the manager. Instead, he harrumped and flew away. At T, the following Tuesday, Mr. Beetle was unusually quiet, as Gwen talked about her latest knitting project. He will have six arms, of course, and a belt round the middle. All he wanted to do was say, what should I do, Gwen? What should I do? But obviously he couldn't say that. He tried to focus on what Gwen was saying, but all he kept thinking of was, what do you suggest, sir? Cats. Gwen was smiling and saying something about tomorrow. You do remember what tomorrow is, don't you? When all of a sudden, Mr. Beetle burst up from his chair, exclaiming, cat, that's it! Gwen peered at him, curiously. I mean, Gwen, I'm so sorry, but there is something pressing I must do. Mr. Beetle sat down his cup and hurried away, sending his tea, sloshing, over the rim. Alright, see you tomorrow. Finally, Mr. Beetle had a plan. He raced home and said about making a large poster. He had poor handwriting. He usually left such tasks to Gwen, but he had no choice, so he carefully scrolled out his note, then he rolled up the poster, tucked it under a leg, and flew to a nearby farm. A nearby farm, known to have cats. Mr. Beetle skittered around, searching for the best place to tack up his poster. He considered a tree by a grassy field. He considered the side of a grain silo near a pond. He settled, at last, just before sunset, on the door of a large barn. He tacked up the poster, making sure each corner was secure. Then he flew back home to enact the rest of his plan. What was written on the poster, you ask? It's a reasonable question. This is what it said. Last mouse. Help us find old Mr. Whiskers. Last scene at midnight on the 26th branch of the tallest oak tree. Known to have a limp and be very slow moving. Also known for smelling. Mr. Beetle had meant to write. Also known for smelling. Delicious. But he ran out of room. It would have to do. Back at his hut, Mr. Beetle went to his confiscation closet. He sifted through the odd assortment of items, until finally finding what he needed. Perfect. By the time Mr. Beetle set foot on the 26th branch, under the light of a full moon, it was nearly midnight. All was silent, except for several owls hooting in the distance. Mr. Beetle wavered, and not only because his mouse costume made him unsteady on his feet. He imagined what Gwen would say, attracting cats. That doesn't sound very safe to me. Of course it isn't safe. Mr. Beetle thought in reply. I can't get this branch to come down by sitting at home, drinking tea, and fluttering my antennae. Now can I? Gwen would not be convinced, but she wasn't there. And all he could think about was that small, solemn sigh she'd given him when he'd told her to wait on a new music player. Mr. Beetle took a deep breath, pushed away his doubts, shouted, for Gwen, and began skittering down the branch. The night was utterly silent, except for those owls. And Mr. Beetle began to feel very silly. What if those cats couldn't even read? Then he heard a meow, pierced the quiet, and Mr. Beetle's heart leapt. There was a cat on the 26th branch. Mr. Beetle whirled around, grinning, my plan is working! But his elation turned to mild terror when he saw not one cat, but three. Yeah! Mr. Beetle took off running away from the cats. He glanced over his shoulder. Now there were five cats. They were enormous, and they were fast. Mr. Beetle on the other hand was extremely slow in his costume. He scurried as fast as he possibly could down the 26th branch with a cat, hot on his trail. What have I done? As Mr. Beetle's last thought, before he felt himself being lifted up by the fabric of his costume, oh no! Mr. Beetle flailed blindly inside the fabric. All he could think of was that bug laughing. What have I done? Then came a sound that drowned out the laughter. Drowned out the miao's. Drowned out everything. Then came a forceful downward pull as everything, the 26th branch, the cats, Mr. Beetle all fell towards the earth. The cat gripping Mr. Beetle's costume flung out its paws as it fell, sending the miao's costume with Mr. Beetle inside it, sailing into the midnight air. Oh! Mr. Beetle frantically scrambled for the exit. This is very poorly made. It's certainly not the work of a craftspeedle. Just before he hit the forest floor, he found the costume's opening, crawled out, and took flight. He turned just in time to see the 26th branch hit the ground with a tremendous thud. The cats? Oh, the cats were fine. They always land on their feet. In late afternoon, Mr. Beetle met up with Gwen on the trail and arrived just as the uniform vested bug was removing the blockade from the 25th branch. The 26th branch came down overnight. They always come down on their own eventually. How wonderful. Gwen remarked. Wonderful indeed. Mr. Beetle agreed, but said nothing more. And after all the young bugs had assembled on the 25th branch, right before story time was to begin. Several bugs landed, carrying a brand new music player. Anyone order this state-of-the-art music player with perfectly functioning buttons? Yes, that would be me. Come. Look, Gwen. It's for you. For your birthday. Well, Gwen said, blushing, as much as a beetle can blush, and I thought you'd forgotten. Nonsense. I would never forget your birthday. It was a wonderful story time with very appropriate songs and sound effects. And by the end of it, the young bugs were fast asleep. Oh, I think I might have twisted my ankle when I ran home from the lollipop factory. But it was completely worth it. And I would do it again. For all of you, I hope you loved the story. Little stories for tiny people is written, performed, and produced by me, ReaPector. My in-house tech director, Peter K, runs my website, and puts my stories on the internet for all of you to enjoy. If you'd like to unlock the full Little Stories library and access Little Stories for Sleep and exclusive bedtime podcast, visit LittleStoriesPremium.com. Thank you to Declan for the super important reminder message at the beginning. And thank you to the many premium subscribers who supplied sound effects used in today's story. Thank you to Riley, Luna, Levi, Adrian, Olivia, Lingling, Ruby, Ezra, Eleanor, Fiona, Lola, Ariana, Lily, Theo, Alice, Sage, David, James, Ren, Juni, Emerson, Teddy, Caden, Kenna, Nelly, Charlie, and Fia. And thank you, as always, for listening in.