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Welcome to Stories Podcast.
I'm your host, Amanda Weldon.
Today's story is a throwback episode.
Tune in to hear one of our classic stories from the archive that you might have missed the first time around.
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Robin's Egg Blues Once upon a time, a grumpy old tortoise was walking through the forest.
He moved slowly, even for a tortoise, and his shell was as big as a boulder.
All tortoises of a certain age are craggy and knobbly and grumpy-looking, but this tortoise put them to shame.
His body was so craggy it looked like a crumbling cliff.
His shell had more knobs than a front-door factory and his face was so grumpy it would turn milk sour.
Like most grumpy folks, he didn't seem to care much for the world around him, except when he wanted to take it down a peg.
Spring was blooming flowers unfurling for the first time in long months, and that didn't sit well with the tortoise.
Pretty things only got in his way.
So, as he walked, one scaly claw at a time, he dragged his heavy shell through the low shrubs and flower patches.
He'd slam down, flattening them back into the mud with a wet thurp sound.
His face may have looked sour and mean, but he almost smiled every time he smooshed a particularly beautiful bloom.
Hmm, what have we here?
Is that a daffodil?
More like a daffodont, he'd croak, and then thump through with his shell.
Thump.
Oh, is that a lilac?
Or is it a lilac's the strength to not get smooshed?
Thirmp, thirmp, thirmp.
On he went until all that was left was a tulip bobbing beautifully in the breeze.
Thought you could escape, did you Tulip?
Come back when you're a three-lip, then maybe we'll talk.
He waddled over, but before he could crush it, a bird swooped down and plucked the bloom.
With a flutter of wings, she hefted it back to her nest on a nearby dogwood tree.
Hey, what's the big idea? the tortoise called.
That flower was mine!
The bird, a chubby little mother robin, peeked down from the edge of her nest.
Was it?
Oh, I'm sorry.
It looked like just the thing for my home.
I can drop it back down if you needed it to.
Oh.
She trailed off, noticing all the new spring flowers smooshed into the mud.
Were you going to crush it?
Well, what business is that of yours, young lady?
Would I choose to smooshes up to me?
The tortoise said, happy to have something new to grumble about.
And what home are you talking about?
That looks like a pile of twigs to me.
I can see how it may look that way, said the robin.
But these are all very nice twigs and I've got some softer grass at the bottom and I've actually built it very sturdily.
Thanks for your concern, though.
Bah, replied the tortoise, barely listening.
How can it be very nice when it's all just stuff you picked up from the ground?
I see twigs, grass, a little branch, and the flower you stole from me.
Stole? asked the Robin indignantly.
I'm sorry, but you can't steal a wildflower in the forest.
It's growing there for anyone.
I happen to get it first.
And wait a minute, but you were just going to, what did you say, smoosh it?
You were just going to smoosh it anyway.
Fine, keep the flower.
Maybe it will improve your sad little house made from dirty straw.
Dirty? said the robin, puffing herself up.
I'll have you know I picked each and every twig myself, and they were all quite clean, thank you.
The old tortoise harrumphed.
Bah, they're twigs.
Your house is basically just a pile of rubbish.
The robin whistled, but didn't let herself get mad.
She knew an old grump when she met one, and they weren't worth the energy it took to be upset.
Whatever you say, tortoise, she called down.
I'm sure your house is much nicer.
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The tortoise let himself show the barest, tiniest, itsy-bitsiest hint of a smile.
He turned slowly, displaying his hulking, craggy, knobbly shell.
I have the finest house in all the world, as a matter of fact.
It's sturdy, clean, comfy, and best of all, I always have it with me.
He pulled his arms and legs in close and then slowly pulled his head into his great big shell.
It disappeared inside.
From deep within, his voice rang out, echoing smugly.
See?
Well, I guess you can't see.
Only room enough for me in here, just the way I like it.
And hey, would you look at that?
Not a dirty twig in sight.
That's good for you, but I happen to love my little house.
The tortoise came back out of his shell, obviously annoyed.
It's always the goal of grumpy people to make everyone around them feel just as grumpy, and he wasn't happy that the round Mother Robin was keeping her cool.
A house should be a striking place, just see me and behold.
With regal knobs, my sturdy shell is worth its weight in gold.
A house should be a private place with zero room for guests.
You may call them visitors, but ma'am, I call them pests.
A house should be a tidy place, clean for all to see, even though the only seer seeing it is me.
A house should be pristine, preserved, and dirt don't try to trace.
A place for every little thing and each thing in its place.
I'd rather enjoy my time and clean up when I'm done.
What good's a A house can be some woven twigs on a dancing dogwood tree.
Plain and clean or a wild scene, nest or shell, ya see.
I like mine with flowers bright and playful as a song.
Just cause my house isn't yours, that doesn't make it wrong.
Well, I disagree.
A house should be a fortress where only you have the key.
Better still, I'd have a moat and maybe a shark or three.
If someone wants to visit, they can write a note in rhyme and then throw it in the garbage.
And try not to waste my time.
A house should be a bunker with room only for you.
And if your friends need shelter, then they should have thought it through.
Of course, that there's your first mistake to bother having friends.
A house can only be at peace if nobody attends.
Seems an awfully lonely way to leave.
A home needs more than a house has to.
And a home is what I want.
I've family on the way, Some cooing little lovelies that should be here any day.
So, big or small, tidy or not, I'm happy with my nest.
With room for friends and family, I'm feeling truly blessed.
I'll keep my company, you keep your alone.
We both have a home. but I've made mine a home.
I love my company, you love your own.
We both have a house, but I
The tortoise sputtered and would have blushed if he wasn't cold-blooded.
Well, I guess it's fine then, for a bird, of course.
Of course, said the robin.
You could come visit any time, Mr. Tortoise.
I love having visitors.
The tortoise harrumphed again and then stomped away.
He had better things to do than listening to the inane tweetings of some bird, he told himself.
He had flowers to smoosh, weather to complain about and other very important tortoise business that a bird couldn't hope to understand.
The mother robin watched him go.
Once he was gone, she flew down and rescued a few more flowers from the mud.
They were a little dirty, but she cleaned them with her wings and some rainwater that had pooled between two stones.
Nearly good as new.
She flew them back up to her nest and laid them carefully among the pale blue eggs that sat cozied in the bed of straw and grass.
They shone in the sun like gemstones, and the mother Robin treated them just as preciously.
Each one was carefully checked and rechecked, settled and resettled until the doting mother was sure they were as warm and comfortable as possible.
Soon, babies! she cooed, settling her warm, feathery weight onto her eggs.
Mama will meet you soon.
As she sat on her babies, she let herself drift off in the sun chuckling, as she remembered that old tortoise.
The old grump, she thought.
He can keep his giant shell, his great big house.
For her, there was no house finer than the one she and her family called home.
The End.
Today's story Robin's Egg Blues was a classic fable adapted for you by Daniel Hines and performed for you by me, Amanda Weldon, with an original song by us both.
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