Bedtime Stories

Storytime Soundtracks

Bedtime Stories

The Velveteen Rabbit ― Margery Williams Bianco

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.

"The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always.”

The Sugar-Plum Tree – Eugene Field

Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree?

It’s a marvel of great renown!

It blooms on the shore of the Lollypop sea In the garden of Shut-Eye Town; The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet (As those who have tasted it say) That good little children have only to eat Of that fruit to be happy next day.

When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard time To capture the fruit which I sing; The tree is so tall that no person could climb To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing!

But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat, And a gingerbread dog prowls below - And this is the way you contrive to get at Those sugar-plums tempting you so:

You say just a word to that gingerbread dog And he barks with such terrible zest That the chocolate cat is at once all agog,

As her swelling proportions attest.

And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around From this leafy limb unto that, And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground - Hurrah for that chocolate cat!

There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes, With stripings of scarlet or gold, And you carry away all the treasure that rains, As much as your apron can hold!

So come, little child, cuddle closer to me In your cosy pyjamas and gown, And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.

The Sneezles - A. A. Milne

Christopher Robin Had wheezles And sneezles, They bundled him Into His bed.

They gave him what goes With a cold in the nose, And some more for a cold In the head.

They wondered If wheezles Could turn Into measles, If sneezles Would turn Into mumps; They examined his chest For a rash, And the rest Of his body for swellings and lumps.

They sent for some doctors In sneezles And wheezles To tell them what ought To be done.

All sorts and conditions Of famous physicians Came hurrying round At a run.

They all made a note Of the state of his throat, They asked if he suffered from thirst; They asked if the sneezles Came after the wheezles, Or if the first sneezle Came first.

They said, "If you teazle A sneezle Or wheezle, A measle May easily grow.

But humour or pleazle The wheezle Or sneezle,

The measle Will certainly go."

They expounded the reazles For sneezles And wheezles, The manner of measles When new.

They said "If he freezles In draughts and in breezles, Then PHTHEEZLES May even ensue."

Christopher Robin Got up in the morning, The sneezles had vanished away.

And the look in his eye Seemed to say to the sky, "Now, how to amuse them to-day?"

Just William At Christmas - Richmal Crompton

Everything seemed to be going off very nicely so far. The waits were walking quietly and sedately down the road, not shouting or fighting as boys so often did. Mr Solomon’s spirits rose. It was really after all a very beautiful idea — and they were really after all very nice boys. He could see William and Ginger and Douglas walking decorously and silently together. Marvellous how even such boys as those yielded to the Christmas spirit.

They were walking at the head, leading the little troupe; they were turning obediently in at the gate of the Laurels.

The young man took out his tuning fork and followed, smiling proudly. Then the light of his lantern shone upon the gate as he entered and — it wasn’t the Laurels.

They’d made a mistake. It wasn’t the Laurels. It was the Cedars.

Mr Solomon, of course, could not know that the Outlaws had passed the Laurels and entered the Cedars deliberately because Ginger’s Uncle George lived at the Cedars.

‘Come back!’ called Mr Solomon’s thin voice through the night. ‘It’s the wrong house! Come back!’

But already the waits had burst violently into The First Noel. It was a pity that they did not wait for the note from Mr Solomon, who had his tuning fork already in his hand.

It was a pity that they did not begin all together, and that having begun each at a separate moment each should cling so tenaciously to his own time and interpretation. It was a great pity that they did not know the words.

It was the greatest pity of all that they possessed the voices they did possess. But there is no denying their zest. There is no denying that each one put all the power and energy he possessed into his rendering of the carol. The resulting sound was diabolical. Diabolical is a strong word, but it is hardly strong enough. The English language does not really possess a word strong enough to describe the effect of these waits’ rendering of The First Noel.