Speaker 1: Hello, and welcome back to Sleepy Stories. I'm your host, Lucy,
and my friends and I will be reading you a
sleepy bedtime story every week to relax you and to
help you to drift off into a RESTful sleep. From
time to time, we will also read you a relaxing,
peaceful meditation that will take you somewhere beautiful and calming.
Once we have read the stories, we will then read
them a second time, but this time they will be
read even slower. This will help you to relax even more.
Before we begin, I would like you to close your
eyes and breathe in and out nice and deeply. Take
a few seconds to inhale, and then hold your breath
for a few seconds more, and then release and breathe out.
Do this a few times if you need to. While
you listen to the music and you listen to my voice,
give yourself time to let your body relax and your
mind settle. It's important that we allow time for our
cells to feel safe, cozy, and completely at ease. And
now it's time for this week's story.
Speaker 2: Mabel Mouse and the Map that Sneezed. Mabel Mouse lived
in the skirting board of number seven Crumblewick lane behind
a loose bit of wallpaper, shaped if you squinted like
a turnip. She was not the biggest mouse in the house,
nor the fastest, nor the quietest, especially when eating crackers,
but she was certainly the most curious. Curiosity Her aunt
Agatha often said is what gets mice trapped in teapots,
but Mabel thought teapots sounded rather interesting. One rainy Tuesday,
while the humans were out and the cat was asleep
in the airing cupboard wearing a sock on his head,
Mabel decided to explore the attic. The attic was strictly forbidden.
This naturally made it irresistible. She climbed the curtain cord,
crossed the bookshelf, squeezed through a crack in the ceiling,
and popped into a world of dust trunks, forgotten umbrellas,
and boxes labeled things like Christmas tax papers and do
not open bees. Mabel's whiskers twitched. She ignored the bee
box because she was adventurous, not ridiculous. At the far
end of the attic sat an old leather trunk with
brass corners and a lock shaped like a grumpy frog.
On top of it lay a rolled up piece of
parchment tied with blue ribbon. Mabel tugged the ribbon loose.
The parchment unrolled itself with a dramatic flap. It was
a map, not an ordinary map with sensible things like roads,
rivers and post office. This way, this map showed places
Mabel had never heard of. The pudding Marshes, Mount Crumpet,
the Forest of Lost hats, and a tiny island marked
with a red X. Across the top, in curly writing
were the words map of where you probably shouldn't go.
Mabel's eyes shone, well, she said, that's an exactly like
somewhere I should go. The map trembled, then it sneezed
air tissue. A cloud of glittering dust burst from the
parchment and blue Mabel backwards into a box of old scarves.
When she sat up, the attic was gone, So was
number seven Crumblewick Lane, So worryingly was the floor. Mabel
was sitting in the middle of a field of enormous mushrooms,
each one wearing a tiny weather Vein the sky was
lemon yellow. A beetle the size of a teapot rolled past,
wearing spectacles. The map sniffed, oh, dear, it said, wrong turn.
Mabel stared at it. You can talk only when I'm congested,
said the map, and I'm always congested. It sneezed again,
and a small compass rose popped out of its corner
like a paper flower. Mabel stood up, brushed scarf fluff
from her ears, and tried to look braver than she felt.
Where are we? The map wriggled, somewhere between here there
and that won't end. Well, that isn't very helpful. I'm
a magical map, not a librarian. Mabel peered at the parchment.
The red X was blinking. What's that the place you're
meant to go? I thought it was where I probably
shouldn't go. Yes, said the map, same thing usually. Before
Mabel could ask another question, there came a loud honk
from behind a mushroom. Out waddled a goose. She wore
a blue waistcoat, carried a walking stick, and had the
expression of someone who had been inconvenienced by life in general. Tickets, please,
said the goose. Mabel blinked. Tickets for what the adventure?
I didn't know I needed one. Everyone needs a ticket,
otherwise it's just wandering. Mabel checked her pockets. She had
a bread crumb, a button, and half a raisin. The
goose inspected them sternly. The button will do. Mabel handed
it over. The goose tucked it into her waistcoat. Name Mabel, Mouse, occupation, curious,
dangerously common profession, said the goose. I'm Gertrude. I'll be
your guide until I become bored, offended, or peckish. The
map sneezed so hard it folded itself into a hat.
Gertrude frowned, Oh no, not that map. You know it,
know it. It once sent my cousin to a volcano
because he asked for somewhere warm. The map sniffed indignantly.
He said he wanted sunshine. He came back lightly toasted.
Mabel looked from Gertrude to the blinking red ex. What's
at the ex? Gertrude lowered her voice, the bell of
small but important things. Mabel's ears perked up. What does
it do? It rings when something small does something brave?
That sounds lovely it is, said Gertrude, which is why
the weasel king stole it. A chilly breeze slipped through
the mushroom field. Even the weather veins stopped spinning. The
weasel King, Gertrude continued, believes only large, loud, important creatures
should be celebrated. He keeps the bell locked in his
castle beyond the pudding marshes. Mabel put a paw on
her chest. But small creatures can be brave, exactly, said Gertrude.
The map gave a tiny sneeze, and that is why
it chose you. Mabel swallowed. She had expected the attic
to contain perhaps old postcards or a biscuit tin. She
had not expected destiny. Still, destiny was looking at her expectantly,
and Gertrude had already begun marching, so Mabel followed. They
crossed the mushroom field, where one mushroom predicted drizzle and
another predicted custard. They passed a pond full of frogs
rehearsing an opera called The Tragic Turnip. They entered the
Forest of lost hats, where every tree wore at least three.
Do not try on the hats, warned Gertrude. Why last
squirrel who did became a mayor. That doesn't sound too
bad of a bucket. Mabel kept her paws to herself.
Halfway through the forest, they heard crying. It was coming
from beneath a velvet top. Mabel lifted the brim and
found a hedgehog tangled in a ribbon. Oh, said the hedgehog,
Thank crumbs, I've been trapped for hours. Mabel carefully untied him.
The hedgehog stood bowed and immediately got the ribbons stuck
on his other foot. My name is Horace, he said,
explorer inventor, part time jam critic. I'm Mabel. This is Gertrude. Delighted,
said Horace. Are you on a quest? Yes, said Mabel,
feeling proud and terrified. Excellent, I've always wanted to be
on a quest. I have provisions. He opened a tiny
satchel and revealed three biscuits, a spoon, a cork, and
something that looked like a sock, but with apparently a tent.
Gertrude sighed fine, but no singing. Horace gasped, what about humming?
Quiet humming? What about heroic humming?
Speaker 1: No?
Speaker 2: They continued. By sunset they reached the edge of the
pudding marshes. The marsh stretched before them, thick and wobbling,
with little bubbles of custard popping on the surface. Signposts
leaned at odd angles. One read this way to certain doom,
another read this way to probable doom. A third simply
read sausage. We go that way, said the map, pointing
towards certain doom. Absolutely not, said Gertrude. The maps sneezed,
the signs spun round. Now certain doom pointed at sausages.
That's cheating, said Mabel. That's navigation, said the map. They
stepped carefully onto the marsh. Squish, wobble, PLoP. Horace poked
the surface with his spoon. Butterscotch. Do not eat the marsh,
said Gertrude. I was identifying it scientifically. You have pudding
on your nose. That is part of the process. They
were halfway across when the marsh began to tremble. A
huge bubble rose, then another. Then something enormous emerged with
a wet schlurping sound. It was a frog, A very
large frog, A very large frog wearing a crown made
from teaspoons. Who squelches in my pudding? Boomed the frog.
Mabel stepped forward, her knees wobbled almost as much as
the marsh. I'm Mabel, mouse, We're trying to reach the
weasel King's castle. The frog blinked, dreadful place, no manners,
no dessert spoons. We need to rescue the bell of
small but important things. The frog leaned closer. Are you small?
Speaker 1: Yes?
Speaker 2: Are you important? Mabel hesitated She did not feel important.
She felt damp. Then Horace whispered, you rescued me from
a hat. Gertrude whispered, you paid for your ticket. The
map whispered, you haven't thrown me into a ditch, which
shows remarkable character. Mabel stood taller. Yes, she said, I
think I might be. The frog smiled, good answer. He
lowered one enormous webbed foot, making a bridge across the
marsh pass, small brave thing. They crossed safely. At the
far side, the frog called, beware the castle guards. They
are very serious and deeply allergic to nonsense. Gertrude smiled
for the first time. Luckily, she said, we have plenty
night fell As they climbed Mount Crumpet, the moon rose
round and buttery. The map glowed faintly, showing a path
between rocks shaped like sleeping buns. At the summit stood
the weasel King's castle. It was tall, dark, pointy and
trying far too hard to look frightening. Black flags snapped
in the wind. A moat circled the walls. Over the
gate hung a sign no mice, no hedgehogs, no geese,
no fun Horace tuttered bit Rude. Gertrude narrowed her eyes.
We need a plan. The map sneezed. A tiny door
appeared in the castle wall. Mabel grinned, that'll do. They
crept inside and found themselves in the royal kitchen. It
was enormous. Copper pans hung from the ceiling, shell groaned
with pies, cakes, tarts, and one suspiciously nervous jelly. At
the center of the kitchen, three weasel cooks argued over soup.
It needs more pepper, said one. It needs more carrots,
said another. It needs less personality, said the third. Gertrude whispered,
follow me. They tiptoed behind flower sects, under tables and
passed a sleeping catfish in a bowl. Then the map sneezed.
Not a small sneeze, not a polite sneeze, A thunderous, catastrophic,
castle rattling sneeze. Flower exploded everywhere. The weasel cooks shrieked.
The nervous jelly fainted, Mabel girt, and Horace froze completely
white with flower One cook pointed ghosts. Horace, thinking quickly
raised his spoon. Ooh, he said, we are the spirits
of badly seasoned soup. The cook screamed and ran. Gertrude
stared at him. Horace beamed heroic nonsense. They hurried from
the kitchen and up a spiral staircase. At the top
was a corridor lined with portraits of the weasel King,
looking important in different hats in each painting. He stood
on a box to seem taller. At the end of
the corridor was a golden door. Behind it, they heard
a tiny silver sound ding. Mabel's heart lifted the bell.
She whispered, But between them and the door stood two guards.
They were tall, thin weasels with helmets too large for
their heads. Halt, said the first, Password said the second.
Mabel looked at Gertrude. Gertrude looked at Horace. Horace looked
at the map. The map sniffed thoughtfully, then sneezed. A
word appeared on the parchment banana. Mabel frowned really. The
map shrugged its corners. Mabel faced the guards banana. The
guards gasped, she knows it impossible. Let her pass. Rules
are rules. They opened the door. Gertrude whispered, that was
the password. The map whispered back, weasels are not complicated.
Inside was the throne room. It was grand and gloomy,
full of velvet curtains and golden chairs that nobody was
allowed to sit on. And there, hanging in a glass
cage above the throne was the bell of small but
important things. It was no bigger than an acorn, cup,
silver as moonlight, with a handle shaped like a mouse tail.
On the throne sat the weasel King. He wore a crown,
a cape, and boots with heels. He was practicing a
speech in a mirror. I am mighty, I am magnificent.
I am. He spotted them being burgled. Mabel stepped forward.
We've come for the bell. The weasel King laughed. It
was a sharp, unpleasant laugh, like a fork dropped downstairs.
You a mouse. You are tiny, yes, said Mabel, you
are quiet. Sometimes you are unimportant. Mabel felt the words
pinch her heart. Then she remembered the frog in the
pudding marsh. She remembered Horace under the hat. She remembered
Gertrude accepting a button as a ticket. She remembered that
even small paws could climb a long way. No, said Mabel,
I'm small. That isn't the same thing. The bell trembled
in its cage, ding. The weasel King's eyes widened. Stop that,
Mabel took another step. Small things matter. A seed becomes
a tree, a spark becomes a fire. A mouse can
find a door no giant could enter. Ding. Horace lifted
his spoon. A biscuit crumb can save a hungry hedgehog ding.
Gertrude raised her walking stick. Her button can buy an adventure. Ding.
The bell rang louder and louder until the glass cage cracked.
The weasel King clapped his paws over his ears. Stop
being inspiring at once. Mabel climbed the throne, leapt onto
the arm, scrambled up the curtain, and swung from the
cord above the bell. The map sneezed one final mighty sneeze.
The glass cage burst open in a shower of harmless glitter.
Mabel caught the bell the moment her paws touched it.
The whole castle changed. The dark walls turned warm gold,
the pointy towers softened into round ones. The horrible sign
outside rewrote itself mice, hedgehogs, geese, and fun welcome. The
weasel King shrank, not in size exactly, but in importance.
His crown slipped over his eyes. But I'm the king,
he squeaked. Gertrude tapped her walking stick. Then try being
a better one. Horace offered him a biscuit. The weasel
King stared at it. No one had ever offered him
a biscuit before he took it. It is difficult to
remain entirely wicked while eating a nice biscuit. By morning,
the bell was returned to the center of the kingdom,
hung from a little wooden arch in a meadow where
everyone could reach it. Creatures came from everywhere, beetles, frogs, squirrels, moths, rabbits,
and a snail who arrived three days early by mistake.
The bell rang for all sorts of things, for the
ant who carried a crumb twice her size, For the
mole who admitted he was lost, For the spider who
knitted socks for cold worms, For Horace, who successfully folded
his sock tent for go Gertrude, who smiled twice before lunch,
and for Mabel Mouse, who had gone into an attic
and found not just a map but her own courage.
At last, the map began to glow. Time to go home,
it said. Mabel felt a little sad. Will I ever
come back? The map sniffed, Probably when you least expect it.
Gertrude gave Mabel a small salute with her walking stick.
Horace hugged her very carefully because of the prickles. Take
a biscuit for the journey, he said. Mabel took one.
The map sneezed a t shoe. The world spun, the
meadow vanished, the castle diss peered, The lemon yellow sky
folded itself away like a blanket. Mabel landed in the
attic of number seven Crumblewick Lane, right inside the box
of old scarves. Rain tapped the roof. The cat snored
below the trunk sat quietly in the corner. The map
lay in front of her, rolled up and tied with
blue ribbon. For a moment, Mabel wondered if she had
dreamed it all. Then something silver jingled in her pocket.
She reached in and pulled out a tiny bell, no
bigger than an acorn cup. It rang once ding. Aunt
Agatha called from below, Mabel, are you in the attic?
Mabel topped the bell safely under her arm. Yes, aunt Agatha,
you know curiosity gets mice trapped in teapots. Mabel smiled. Maybe,
she said, but sometimes it gets them home again with
a story. And from inside the rolled up map came
a very small, very suspicious sound. Ah. Mabel grinned, don't
you dare Mabel Mouse and the map that sneezed. Mabel
Mouse lived in the skirting board of number seven Crumblewick Lane,
behind a loose bit of wallpaper shaped if you squinted,
like a turnip. She was not the biggest mouse in
the house, nor the fastest, nor the quietest, especially when
eating crackers, but she was certainly the most curious. Curiosity
her aunt Agatha often said, is what gets mice trapped
in teapots. But Mabel thought teapots sounded rather interesting. One
rainy Tuesday, while the humans were out and the cat
was asleep in the airing cupboard wearing a sock on
his head, Mabel decided to explore the attic. The attic
was strictly forbidden. This naturally made it irresistible. She climbed
the curtain cord, crossed the bookshelf, squeezed through a crack
in the ceiling, and popped into a world of dust trunks,
forgotten umbrellas, and boxes labeled things like Christmas tax papers
and do not open bees. Mabel's whiskers twitched. She ignored
the bee box because she was adventurous, not ridiculous. At
the far end of the attic sat an old leather
trunk with brass corners and a lock shaped like a
grumpy frog. On top of it lay a rolled up
piece of parchment tied with blue ribbon. Mabel tugged the
ribbon loose, the parchment unrolled itself with a dramatic flap.
It was a map, not an ordinary mi map with
sensible things like roads, rivers and post office. This way,
this map showed places Mabel had never heard of. The
pudding Marshes, Mount Crumpet, the Forest of Lost Hats, and
a tiny island marked with a red X. Across the top.
In curly writing were the words map of where you
probably shouldn't go. Mabel's eyes shone. Well, she said, that
sounds exactly like somewhere I should go. The map trembled,
then it sneezed air tissue. A cloud of glittering dust
burst from the parchment and blue Mabel backwards into a
box of old scarves. When she sat up, the attic
was gone. So was number seven Crumblewick Lane. So worryingly
was the floor. Mabel was sitting in the middle of
a field of enormous mushrooms, each one wearing a tiny
weather Vein the sky was lemon yellow. A beetle the
size of a teapot rolled past, wearing spectacles. The map sniffed,
Oh dear, it said, wrong turn. Mabel stared at it.
You can talk only when I'm congested, said the map,
and I'm always congested. It sneezed again, and a small
compass rose popped out of its corner like a paper flower.
Mabel stood up, brushed scarf fluff from her ears, and
tried to look braver than she felt. Where are we?
The map wriggled, somewhere between here there and that won't end. Well,
that isn't very helpful. I'm a magical map, not a librarian.
Mabel peered at the parchment. The red ex was blinking.
What's that the place you're meant to go? I thought
it was where I probably shouldn't go. Yes, said the map,
same thing usually. Before Mabel could ask another question, there
came a loud honk from behind a mushroom. Out waddled
a goose. She wore a blue waistcoat, carried a walking stick,
and had the expression of someone who had been inconvenienced
by life in general. Tickets, please, said the goose. Mabel blinked.
Tickets for what the adventure? I didn't know I needed one.
Everyone needs a ticket otherwise it's just wandering. Mabel checked
her pockets. She had a bread crumb, a button, and
half a raisin. The goose inspected them sternly. The button
will do. Mabel handed it over. The goose tucked it
into her waistcoat. Name Mabel, Mouse, occupation, curious, dangerously common profession,
said the goose. I'm Gertrude. I'll be your guide until
I become bored, offended, or peckish. The map sneezed so
hard it folded itself into a hat. Gertrude frowned, Oh no,
not that map. You know it, know it. It once
sent my cousin to a volcano because he asked for
somewhere warm. The map sniffed indignantly. He said he wanted sunshine.
He came back lightly toasted. Mabel looked from Gertrude to
the blinking red X. What's at the X? Gertrude lowered
her voice, the bell of small but important things. Mabel's
ears perked up. What does it do? It rings when
something small does something brave. That sounds lovely, it is,
said Gertrude, which is why the weasel king stole it.
A chilly breeze slipped through the mushroom field. Even the
weather veins stopped spinning. The weasel King, Gertrude continued, believes
it's only large, loud, important creatures should be celebrated. He
keeps the bell locked in his castle beyond the pudding marshes.
Mabel put a paw on her chest. But small creatures
can be brave. Exactly, said Gertrude. The map gave a
tiny sneeze, and that is why it chose you. Mabel swallowed.
She had expected the attic to contain perhaps old postcards
or a biscuit tin. She had not expected Destiny. Still,
Destiny was looking at her expectantly, and Gertrude had already
begun marching, so Mabel followed. They crossed the mushroom field,
where one mushroom predicted drizzle and another predicted custard. They
passed a pond full of frogs rehearsing an opera called
The Tragic Turnip. They entered the Forest of Lost hats,
where every tree wore at least three. Do not try
on the hats, warned Gertrude. Why last squirrel who did
became a mayor. That doesn't sound too bad of a bucket.
Mabel kept her paws to herself. Half way through the forest,
they heard crying. It was coming from beneath a velvet
top hat. Mabel lifted the brim and found a hedgehog
tangled in a ribbon. Oh, said the hedgehog, Thank crumbs,
I've been trapped for hours. Mabel carefully untied him. The
hedgehog stood bowed and immediately got the ribbons stuck on
his other foot. My name is Horace, he said, explorer inventor,
part time jam critic. I'm Mabel. This is Gertrude. Delighted,
said Horace. Are you on a quest, Yes, said Mabel,
feeling proud and terrified. Excellent, I've always wanted to be
on a quest. I have provisions. He opened a tiny
satchel and revealed three biscuits, a spoon, a cork, and
something that looked like a sock but was apparently a tent.
Gertrude sighed fine, but no singing. Horace gasped, what about humming?
Quiet humming? What about heroic humming?
Speaker 1: No?
Speaker 2: They continued. By sunset, they reached the edge of the
pudding marshes. The marsh stretched before them, thick and wobbling,
with little bubbles of custard popping on the surface. Signposts
leaned at odd angles. One read this way to certain doom,
another read this way to probable doom. A third simply
read sausage. We go that way, said the map, pointing
toward certain doom. Absolutely not, said Gertrude. The map sneezed,
the signs spun round. Now certain doom pointed at sausages.
That's cheating, said Mabel. That's navigation, said the map. They
stepped carefully onto the marsh. Squish, wobble, PLoP. Horace poked
the surface with his spoon butterscotch. Do not eat the marsh,
said Gertrude. I was identifying it scientifically. You have pudding
on your nose. That is part of the process. They
were half way across when the marsh began to tremble.
A huge bubble rose, then another. Then something enormous emerged
with a wet schlurping sound. It was a frog, A
very large frog, A very large frog wearing a crown
made from teaspoons, whose squelches in my pudding boomed the frog.
Mabel stepped forward, her knees wobbled almost as much as
the marsh. I'm Mabel Mouse. We're trying to reach the
weasel King's castle. The frog blinked, dreadful place, no manners,
no dessert spoons. We need to rescue the bell of
small but important things. The frog leaned closer. Are you small? Yes?
Are you important? Mabel hesitated. She did not feel important.
She felt damp. Then Horace whispered, you rescued me from
a hat. Gertrude whispered, you paid for your ticket. The
map whispered, you haven't thrown me into a ditch, which
shows remarkable character. Mabel stood taller. Yes, she said, I
think I might be. The frog smiled, good answer. He
lowered one enormous webbed foot, making a bridge across the
marsh pass, small brave thing. They crossed safely. At the
far side, the frog called, beware the castle guards. They
are very serious and deeply allergic to nonsense. Gertrude smiled
for the first time. Luckily, she said, we have plenty
night fell. As they climbed Mount Crumpet, the moon rose
round and buttery. The map glowed faintly, showing a path
between rocks shaped like sleeping buns. At the summit stood
the weasel King's castle. It was tall, dark, pointy, and
trying far too hard to look frightening. Black flags snapped
in the wind. A moat circled the walls. Over the
gate hung a sign no mice, no hedgehogs, no geese,
no fun. Horace tutted bit Rude. Gertrude narrowed her eyes.
We need a plan. The map sneezed. A tiny door
appeared in the castle wall. Mabel grinned, that'll do. They
crept inside and found themselves in the royal kitchen. It
was enormous. Copper pans hung from the ceiling shelves groaned
with pies, cakes, tarts, and one suspiciously nervous jelly. At
the center of the kitchen, three weasel cooks argued over soup.
It needs more pepper, said one. It needs more carrots,
said another. It needs less personality, said the third. Gertrude whispered,
follow me. They tiptoed behind flower sex under tables and
passed a sleeping catfish in a bowl. Then the map sneezed.
Not a small sneeze, not a polite sneeze, a thunderous, catastrophic,
castle rattling sneeze. Flower exploded everywhere. The weasel cooks shrieked,
the nervous jelly fainted, Mabel, Gertrude, and Horace froze completely
white with flower. One cook pointed ghosts. Horace, thinking quickly
raised his spoon. Oooh, he said, we are the spirits
of badly seasoned soup. The cooks screamed and ran. Trude
stared at him. Horace beamed heroic nonsense. They hurried from
the kitchen and up a spiral staircase. At the top
was a corridor lined with portraits of the weasel king
looking important in different hats in each painting. He stood
on a box to seem taller. At the end of
the corridor was a golden door. Behind it, they heard
a tiny silver sound ding. Mabel's heart lifted the bell.
She whispered. But between them and the door stood two guards.
They were tall, thin weasels with helmets too large for
their heads. Halt, said the first, password, said the second.
Mabel looked at Gertrude. Gertrude looked at Horace. Horace looked
at the map. The map sniffed thoughtfully, then sneezed. A
word appeared on the parchment banana. Mabel frowned, really. The
map shrugged its corners. Mabel faced the guards banana. The
guards gasped, she knows it impossible. Let her pass. Rules
are rules. They opened the door. Gertrude whispered, that was
the password. The map whispered back, weasels are not complicated.
Inside was the throne room. It was grand and gloomy,
full of velvet curtains and golden chairs that nobody was
allowed to sit on. And there, hanging in a glass
cage above the throne was the bell of small but
important things. It was no bigger than an acorn cup
silver as moonlight, with a handle shaped like a mouse tail.
On the throne sat the weasel King. He wore a crown,
a cape, and boots with heels. He was practicing a
speech in a mirror. I am mighty, I am magnificent.
I am. He spotted them being burgled. Mabel stepped forward.
We've come for the bell. The weasel King laughed. It
was a sharp, unpleasant laugh, like a fork dropped downstairs.
You a mouse. You are tiny, yes, said Mabel. You
are quiet. Sometimes you are unimportant. Mabel felt the words
pinch her heart. Then she remembered the frog in the
pudding marsh. She remembered Horace under the hat. She remembered
Gertrude accepting a button as a ticket. She remembered that
even small paws could climb a long way. No, said Mabel,
I'm small. That isn't the same thing. The bell trembled
in its cage, ding. The weasel King's eyes widened. Stop that,
Mabel took another step. Small things matter. A seed becomes
a tree, a spark becomes a fire. A mouse can
find a door no giant could enter. Ding Horace lifted
his spoon a biscuit crumb can save a hungry hedgehog. Ding.
Gertrude raised her walking stick. Her button can buy an
adventure ding. The bell rang louder and louder until the
glass cage cracked. The weasel King clapped his paws over
his ears. Stop being inspiring at once. Mabel climbed the throne,
leapt onto the arm, scrambled up the curtain, and swung
from the cord above the bell. The map sneezed one
final mighty sneeze. The glass cage burst open in a
shower of harmless glitter. Mabel caught the bell. The moment
her paws touched it, the whole castle changed. The dark
walls turned warm gold. The pointy towers softened into round ones.
The horrible sign outside rewrote itself Mice, hedgehogs, geese and
fun welcome. The weasel King shrank, not in size exactly,
but in importance. His crown slipped over his eyes. But
I'm the king, he squeaked. Gertrude tapped her walking stick.
Then try being a better one. Horace offered him a biscuit.
The weasel King stared at it. No one had ever
offered him a biscuit before he took it. It is
difficult to remain entirely wicked while eating a nice biscuit.
By morning, the bell was returned to the center of
the kingdom, hung from a little wooden arch in a
meadow where everyone could reach it. Creatures came from everywhere, beetles, frogs, squirrels, moths, rabbits,
and a snail who arrived three days early by mistake.
The bell rang for all sorts of things, for the
ant who carried a crumb twice her size, For the
mole who admitted he was lost, for the spider who
knitted socks for cold worms, for Horace, who successfully folded
his sock tent, For Gertrude, who smiled twice before lunch.
And for Mabel Mouse, who had gone into an attic
and found not just a map but her own courage.
At last, the map began to glow. Time to go home,
it said. Mabel felt a little sad. I ever come back,
The map sniffed, probably when you least expect it. Gertrude
gave Mabel a small salute with her walking stick. Horace
hugged her very carefully because of the prickles. Take a
biscuit for the journey, he said. Mabel took one. The
map sneezed a t shoe. The world spun, the meadow vanished,
the castle disappeared, the lemon yellow sky folded itself away
like a blanket. Mabel landed in the attic of number
seven Crumblewick Lane, right inside the box of old scarves.
Rain tapped the roof. The cat snored below. The trunk
sat quietly in the corner. The map lay in front
of her, rolled up and tied with blue ribbon. For
a moment, Mabel wondered if she had dreamed it all.
Then something silver jingled in her pocket. She reached in
and pulled out a tiny bell, no bigger than an
acorn cup. It rang once ding. Aunt Agatha called from below, Mabel,
are you in the attic? Mabel tucked the bell safely
under her arm. Yes, aunt Agatha. You know curiosity gets
mice trapped in teapots. Mabel smiled, maybe, she said, but
sometimes it gets them home again with a story. And
from inside the rolled up map came a very small,
very suspicious sound. Ah. Mabel grinned, don't you dare.
Speaker 1: B bu bu bu?
Speaker 2: It's u