Mr. Beetle Takes a Bow: A Story for Kids
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This is Ria. Welcome to Little Stories for Tiny People. I was recently rifling through a rack of tuxedos, searching for the perfect style for my neighbor's cat, Mr. Winklesmith.

He's being honored for an act of bravery at an upcoming buffet dinner. Anyway, my neighbor asked me to pick out the tuxedo as she's been unable to get around much due to twisting her ankle during a jellyfish juggling routine. I said, sure, thinking, how difficult could it be to select a tuxedo for a cat?

It turned out to be more challenging than I'd expected. As soon as I'd picked the perfect suit, I discovered, to my shock and dismay, it was not a tuxedo meant for a cat at all. It was meant for a rat. It did look a bit on the small side. Hmm...

As I resumed my search for a feline tuxedo, I happened to spot, out of the corner of my eye, a beetle skittering its way across the floor. And just like that, I was hit in the head with a burning question. What has Mr. Beetle been up to? Let's find out. It's called Mr. Beetle Takes a Bow.

Take it away, Nora. Remember, there are no pictures. You'll have to imagine them in your mind. You can imagine them however you want. Okay, here we go. It was a lovely evening in spring when old Mr. Beetle, talented bootmaker turned late-in-life storyteller, set off towards the 25th branch for his usual Wednesday night story time for young bugs.

He looked forward to his storytime evenings. They had come to be the highlight of the back end of his life. He relished seeing his audience's reaction to his ratcheting up the tension in a tale. "I'm literally on the edge of my seat." "I just fell off mine." Making the young bugs chortle with laughter.

Before fatiguing them, in a good way, until they fell asleep where they sat. But this particular Wednesday evening did not feel usual.

not with the pit of uncertainty that had settled into Mr. Beetle's abdomen. It was Mr. Beetle's habit to stride purposefully to his little stage on the 25th branch, barely taking in his surroundings, completely focused on his narrative arts. But this evening, he stopped on the way and stood looking out at the forest.

It was spring, and the twilight air was filled with the sounds of frogs croaking in chorus. Somewhere, out of sight, a coyote howled, as if willing night to fall.

And just like that, the sun set over the trees. Mr. Beetle watched, rapt, as a brilliant display filled the sky as it turned rich hues of pink and purple. He sighed as the fiery star took its last gasp on the horizon, huddled

Perhaps the sun is setting in more ways than one, Mr. Beetle whispered to himself. You see, after months and months of successful story times, with dozens of eager young bugs in attendance, last week, just a single dozen showed up.

Halfway through, one bug left, picked up by his parents. They flew off, carrying suitcases, leaving just... Eleven bugs, Gwen! Eleven! Mr. Beetle had exclaimed to his faithful assistant, a beetle herself, once he'd lulled the modest crowd to sleep on the 25th branch.

I'm sure it's just a temporary blip, Gwen had said with a reassuring smile. Perhaps, Gwen, perhaps.

But since that night, Mr. Beetle could not shake the feeling that this drop in audience meant something deeper. As the sun slipped from sight below the tree line and the bouquet of color faded to a deep midnight blue, Mr. Beetle sighed.

things come to an end, he said quietly. Mr. Beetle's fears were confirmed when a grand total of three young bugs showed up for story time.

Worse still, as Mr. Beetle told his story, Gibberson Hush Beetle realized he had no idea how to tune an accordion. Everything about the three bugs seemed amplified, as if their every action clamored for attention.

One bug decided, despite having plenty of empty seats from which to choose, to sit directly in front of Mr. Beetle in the first row. He stared up at the esteemed elder beetle, never looking away.

never appearing to blink. On a typical night, with a healthy crowd, it mattered not whether there was a beetle in the first row, but this was no typical night, and Mr. Beetle found it unnerving to have such an intensely attentive bug amid so many vacant seats.

He tried to ignore it. The toad, whose name was Mr. Hopperton, laughed at Gibberson. Another bug sat in a middle row,

put his feet up on the empty chair in front of him, and theatrically checked his wristwatch every minute or two, as if he were just there to bide his time before getting to a more important engagement. It was extremely distracting. Next, Gilderoy.

Gibberson skittered down the hill to visit his neighbor, Gilda Beetle Bun, who he'd seen playing her wristwatch—I mean accordion—

on the branch outside. Then there was the third and final bug who sat in the back, staring up at the moon, zipping and unzipping a pocket on his trousers throughout the entire story.

If that wasn't enough, the bugs kept laughing at the wrong moments. Gibberson used his cane to knock on the door of Gilda's hut.

Mr. Beetle grimaced. That wasn't funny. At other times, the bugs remained silent when they were meant to laugh. Finally, Gilda answered the door and exclaimed, I'm sorry, I was in the middle of giving a bath to my pet flea.

Mr. Beetle's antennae fluttered. That was funny. All in all, it was a deeply unsettling evening. Mr. Beetle had the feeling of walls closing in on him, despite being in the open air of a tree branch. Somehow, a mere handful of young bugs rattled him more than could a boisterous crowd.

Still, he was a professional. Despite the shock of such a tiny audience and the constant disturbances, Mr. Beetle forged on and finished his tale.

Gibberson thanked Gilda Beetle Bun profusely and skittered home under the moon with his newly tuned accordion wedged beneath a leg, leaving the ragtag trio of bugs asleep in their seats.

It's probably just a temporary blip, Gwen said as she and Mr. Beetle walked home. That's what you said last week. Gwen?

Gwen, have I ever told you the story of how I came to have my own boot-making business? I don't know that you have. It might shed light on our current predicament. So as he and Gwen skittered along the branch...

Mr. Beetle told her the story. As a young beetle, I had the good fortune of becoming the apprentice of one Mr. Lancaster Tea Boot Beetle.

rare master of beetle boot craftsmanship. One day, when Boot Beetle was getting on in years, he fumbled with a length of boot lace. He squinted and adjusted his glasses several times, but he couldn't seem to lace it properly.

Young Mr. Beetle, could you... That's what he called me then. I was young once, Gwen. Of course. Young Mr. Beetle, could you... Mr. Beetle, can you lace this boot for me? It seems my eyes are failing me.

Of course, sir. Mr. Lancaster Tea Boot Beetle stared at the ground as his young apprentice swiftly laced the boot. Truth be told, Boot Beetle said, my eyes have been failing for quite some time.

Young Mr. Beetle had noticed this, had indeed seen the effects of it. For months, he managed a mumble in reply. Hmm. There was a heavy silence as they both considered what this meant. Then, the legendary bootmaker...

Harumphed. Harumphed. The following day, Lancaster Tea Boot Beetle left the beetle boot business for good. The following day, Lancaster Tea left the beetle boot business for good. There was a brief silence as Gwen digested this small tale.

Perhaps he was clearing his throat, she offered uncertainly. Gwen, that harumph held veritable fathoms of meaning. Know when to skitter away. That was Boot Beetle's message to me that day. Know when to skitter away. Gwen opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. This is no blip.

Mr. Beetle said, stopping to stare up at the waning crescent moon. This is a dragonfly in a nosedive.

I didn't know dragonflies had noses, Gwen said quietly. It's time to face facts, Mr. Beetle said grimly. Three bugs. I did the math, Gwen. That's only three more than zero. Gwen was silent beside him.

What was there to say? It was only three more than zero. All good things must come to an end, even Wednesday night story times for young bugs on the 25th branch.

It was startling to them both, as if hearing the words aloud made them real. There could be another explanation for the drop in attendance, Gwen offered. What could possibly explain such a precipitous drop over the course of two weeks?

My audience has left me, Gwen. There's not always an explanation for such things. We could drum up publicity. Take out an ad in the Treetop News Weekly. Mr. Beetle sighed. That paper is a shell of its former self.

Precisely what I don't want to become, Mr. Beetle added silently in his thoughts. Have you seen their advertisements these days? He boomed aloud. They've been promoting Quincy's Antennae Shine Shop.

Hmm. Quincy O'Beetlebiff is a known swindler, Gwen. Really? He uses cheap shine oil. It wears off in minutes. That ridiculous photo of him smiling like he's won some kind of medal is always right next to the crossword. Which, by the way, is also in decline.

The clues are much too easy. Really? Just yesterday there was this clue. Beetles shed these as they grow. Illusions? Gwen offered. Mr. Beetle turned to look at his faithful assistant for the first time in many minutes.

Funny, Gwen. You had me for a second. Exoskeletons, obviously. Obviously. Mr. Beetle went quiet, brooding over his predicament.

I've been your assistant for several years now, Gwen said softly, keeping her eyes on the moon. The best I could have asked for. I was thinking. Yes? Gwen turned to face Mr. Beetle. As a rule, she chose her words carefully. But just then, they tumbled out of her, nervously.

nearly tripping over one another. "Don't decide anything tonight. Take a week to think it over. Tell me your decision when we meet for tea on Tuesday. I'll accept whatever you decide." Mr. Beetle put a foot to his chin.

Well, he didn't really have a chin, but he put it to his chin-like region. His gut told him his season of storytelling had come to an end. But after everything Gwen had done for him, he owed her this favor, at the very least.

I'll take the week to think it over, of course." They resumed walking, this time in silence, as the spring wind whistled around them in the dark night air. Old Mr. Beetle took Gwen's request seriously.

That week, he mined the natural world for answers. Uncharacteristically, as he disliked dusting up his beautifully crafted boots, he hiked up a mountain. From its peak, he stared out at an endless pine tree-dotted vista.

There were grooves and dips in the land, where hills gave way to valleys. "The land rises and falls," he murmured to himself, "as do fortunes and audiences of young bugs eager to hear a story." Next, he flew to the ocean and watched the waves lap against shore.

After a time, the tide went out, the waterline receding every few minutes. The tide comes in, Mr. Beetle mused. The tide goes out. A young beetle staggered out of the surf, carrying a leaf board. When he approached, Mr. Beetle said, Packing it in for the night, young chap?

The beetle glanced up and replied, "'You gotta know when to pack it in, man.'" "'Ain't that the truth?' Mr. Beetle said in a whisper as the lad trudged past him up the beach."

It was a new moon, which meant no moon at all. Mr. Beetle disliked flying in complete darkness. It was all too easy to fly into a spider's web. So he walked.

As he walked, blindly, away from the ocean and back to the forest, he stumbled on a rock. It crinkled his leg, and as he made his way slowly towards home, he thought again of another blind beetle, his mentor, Lancaster Tea. No wind skitter away.

Mr. Beetle limped the rest of the way home, feeling a mix of resignation and dread settle in his tummy.

"'Gwen, now I have to ask you to do a favor for me,' Mr. Beetle said with a sigh, after telling her the conclusion he'd reached that week. The two beetles were seated at their usual stone table for their usual Tuesday afternoon tea, and

It was a gorgeous spring day, and the birds sang from the treetops. Of course, name it. Well, it might seem trivial, but... Yes, I'd like to have a special sign for tomorrow evening. Something classy that tells the young bugs it's my final show.

I have just the idea. Make sure it's sturdy. The sturdiest. I don't want it to be torn down. Of course. It should require a crowbar to remove it, Gwen. That can be arranged. Gwen took a slow sip of her tea, then set down her cup on the table.

Are you sure this is the right course? I don't see any way forward. What's a storyteller without an audience? Gwen did not have an answer to that.

The following evening was warm and breezy. Gwen arrived early on the 25th branch, carrying a beautifully designed wooden plaque. In a lovely, looping, golden, painted script, it read...

Welcome to Mr. Beetle's Fine Farewell, a goodbye story for young bugs on the 25th branch.

As she nailed it to the tree, a handful of young bugs arrived and found seats. "Perfect, Gwen. Just perfect," Mr. Beetle said, skittering up behind her as she finished. "I'm glad you like it. Flanagan Beetle Dot, the sign maker?" "Oh, yes. Flanagan and I go way back." He agreed to do a rush order.

But he was very surprised to hear you were retiring, said his granddaughter as a big fan. Hmm. Well, the sign is just right. And look, I'll at least have a small gathering for my farewell story, Mr. Beetle said, casting a glance to the several young bugs in attendance.

It was a relief. There had been a part of him that feared no one would show up. It's still early. You might get quite a few more. Perhaps, Mr. Beetle said with a doubtful expression.

Gwen finished up with the sign and went to set up her music player at the back. It was still early. Mr. Beetle would not begin his story for nearly 20 minutes. He had absolutely nothing to do, which was not good because he needed to keep busy, lest his mind wander to questions about the future. What would he do on Wednesday evenings, for example? He

He didn't want to think about it at the moment. So, after puttering around, offering to help Gwen set up... Oh no, I'm fine, thank you. Mr. Beetle decided to personally welcome the young bugs who had already arrived. He had never done this before, and when he approached them, leg outstretched...

They peered at him, quizzically. Welcome, welcome. Hello, good to see you, he said, addressing them each with a nod. That's a smart-looking cap you've got. The bugs glanced at one another, perplexed.

Ahem. Well, I do appreciate you showing up and on the early side. That's nice. Very nice to have a punctual audience for my final... But a young bug interrupted him. I knew I had to get here early this week. Another bug chimed in. Me too. I rushed to get ready, actually put my trousers on inside out. My dad made me fix them.

"Thankfully, didn't lose more than a minute. Might not have gotten a seat otherwise," added a bug wearing red suspenders attached to black corduroy pants. "Might not have gotten a seat," Mr. Beetle echoed.

He felt a shiver of confusion ripple through his exoskeleton. I would have gone away for spring break too, but my mom decided we should have a staycation. She said it would be just as good as a regular vacation. Another bug added, crossing two legs over her chest. Mr. Beetle narrowed his eyes, befuddled. Spring break?

Yeah, you know, when young bugs are out of school and they go on trips like to jellyfish aquariums. Hmm, jellyfish aquariums? When precisely did this spring break begin?

Officially, it started last Monday, but lots of beetles flew out of town the Thursday before. Some even on Wednesday. "My parents are all about following the rules, so they never take me out early," one beetle said, prompting the others to nod in commiseration as they thought of their own rule-following parents.

Some even on Wednesday, Mr. Beetle muttered, remembering his reduced audience that evening. Just as the pieces fell together in his mind, he became aware of a far-off rumbling sound. It was the fluttering of dozens, no, hundreds of wings.

come, Mr. Beetle? Hope the branch doesn't break. A young bug shouted above the din. Mr. Beetle smiled weakly and skittered away. Gwen, he cried a few steps from the music player. Gwen had been focused on the knobs of the player and she startled at the sound of her name. Gwen, we've got a problem. Oh,

I was wrong. I was all wrong. The young bugs did not abandon me. They went away on Spring Snap. Spring Snap?

Gwen said, a searching look in her eyes. "Oh, you mean spring break." "The young bugs' classes are cancelled for a week." "And if the parents are unruly characters, they even pull the bugs out early."

As early as the Wednesday before last, Mr. Beetle said, his eyes filled with meaning. The sound of fluttering wings grew louder. This is wonderful news. The young bugs are coming back.

This is terrible news, Gwen. What about the sign? It declares this to be my final story. But if this was all due to spring snap... Break. Spring break? Then... Then you aren't ready to skitter away?

Mr. Beetle glanced up at the narrow slice of waxing crescent moon newly visible above the trees. Then he gave Gwen a slow, certain nod. She returned it with a reassuring smile.

"Mmm! Gwen, this sign is positively one with this tree!" Moments later, Gwen and Mr. Beetle stood side by side,

wrestling with the wooden sign as a swarm of bugs came into view above the trees. "'We'd need a crowbar to get it down,' Mr. Beetle huffed. The swarm of bugs was perilously close to the 25th branch."

Gwen and Mr. Beetle gave a few more pulls at the sign. It's no use. It's not coming down. Mr. Beetle imagined the chaos and confusion the sign would cause, announcing to the world his fine farewell. Fine farewell? Mr. Beetle's never coming back? Oh!

Oh well, guess we'll spend our Wednesday evenings at the trampoline place instead. He'd lose control of his own narrative. How would he ever correct the record? What can we do, Gwen? What can we do?

The wooden sign announcing Mr. Beetle's farewell was beautifully crafted. Flanagan Beetle Dot was a true artist, could have been a portrait painter, but he'd chosen to put his gifts to more practical use. The sign had meant to remain on the tree for months before being crowbarred down and moved to a prominent position in Mr. Beetle's home office.

He had fussed over it when he'd arrived in the branch. Now, Gwen, we need to make sure none of these young bugs, especially the quarrelsome ones, touch the sign. I don't want their grubby little feet wearing down its edges. But after he'd discovered he'd been wrong about everything, he'd changed his tune. The marker, Gwen!

Get the marker! Mr. Beetle was very fortunate to have the kind of assistant who was always prepared, the kind who kept her satchel stocked with pencils, sticky notes, and a large black permanent marker.

And so, as the young bugs descended on the 25th branch, Gwen descended on the wooden sign.

with its lovely, looping, golden script armed with her marker. She swiftly blotted out several key words as the young bugs streamed onto the branch, chatting about the trips they'd taken. We went on a cruise to that rock in the middle of the lake. Oh, cool.

Cool, we did that last year. No longer did they see a message reading, "Welcome to Mr. Beetle's Fine Farewell, a goodbye story for young bugs on the 25th branch." Instead, they saw, "Welcome to Mr. Beetle's Fine Good Story for Young Bugs on the 25th Branch."

It might have been clunky, but it got the job done. Oh wow, look, a fine good story. That's exactly what I was hoping for. It was rare, of course, and he usually did not enjoy it. But in this case, Mr. Beetle was very happy.

to be proven wrong. And he knew now, with hundreds of young bugs spilling off the 25th branch, laughing at all the right moments, and then the turtle said, Shall I take that for you? That while it was important, as Lancaster Tea had shown him, to know when to skitter away,

It might be just as important not to leave too soon. Once his audience was asleep, Mr. Beetle and Gwen made their way home beneath the slim curl of the moon and a breathtaking display of twinkling stars. An owl hooted from a nearby tree.

Gwen, Mr. Beetle said with a thoughtful sigh. Yes? There will be a day when it's time to hang up my narrative arts. Hmm. Just not today. Not today.

Gwen agreed. They walked along the branch, side by side. They made plans to meet for tea the following Tuesday and for story time the following Wednesday.

Oh dear, I think that's Mr. Winkle Smith at my studio door. Good thing I managed to grab and quickly pay for a certified cat tuxedo before fleeing from the store to write this story. I better go.

Sounds restless. Little Stories for Tiny People is written, performed, and produced by me, Rhea Pector. My in-house tech director, Peter Kay, runs my website and puts my stories on the internet for all of you to enjoy. Thank you to my Little Stories Premium subscribers.

If you'd like to get more of the stories you love, access to Little Stories for Sleep, an exclusive bedtime podcast, and ad-free listening, join or gift a subscription at littlestoriespremium.com. Thank you to Nora for the super important reminder message at the beginning.

And thank you to the many premium subscribers who supplied sound effects used in this story. Thank you to...

And thank you, as always, for listening in.