The dinosaur who breathed with the fireflies

Pip was the smallest dinosaur in the fern valley, and he had the biggest eyes. That was the trouble. Big eyes see a lot, and at night, the sky above the fern valley was full of things to see.

Every evening, the other dinosaurs curled up in the warm hollow between the two round hills. The long-necked ones folded their necks like garden hoses. The spiky ones tucked their tails under their chins. The tiny ones, Pip’s cousins, piled up in a heap like warm pebbles, and soon the whole valley was quiet except for one sound.

Hush, hush, went the ferns in the wind. Hush, hush.

But Pip did not curl up. Pip was lying on his back with his big eyes wide open, looking at the stars.

“That one is shaped like a leaf,” he whispered. “That one is shaped like a snail. That one is shaped like my cousin Dot when she sneezes.”

He counted them. He lost count. He started again. The stars were just too interesting.

An old dinosaur named Juniper lived at the edge of the hollow. She was very large and very slow, and her skin was the color of moss after rain. She had seen more nights than anyone in the valley, and she had learned something about them.

She lifted her heavy head and looked at Pip.

“Little one,” she said, in a voice like a low, warm drum. “Are the stars keeping you up again?”

“They are so interesting,” said Pip. “I can’t stop looking.”

“Mmm,” said Juniper. “I know. I used to look too. Then I found something closer to look at.”

She nodded toward the long grass by the stream. Pip turned his head.

Little lights were drifting up out of the grass. Not stars. Fireflies. Dozens of them, floating slow and low, glowing and going dark, glowing and going dark.

“Watch one,” said Juniper. “Just one. Pick it.”

Pip picked a firefly that was drifting right over his nose.

“When it glows, breathe in,” said Juniper. “When it goes dark, breathe out. Slow as the firefly. No faster.”

The firefly glowed. Pip breathed in. The firefly went dark. Pip breathed out.

Hush, hush, went the ferns.

“That is one,” said Juniper. “Count with me. One.”

The firefly glowed. In. It went dark. Out.

“Two,” said Juniper.

Pip’s breath was slow now. Slower than when he counted stars, which he had done all in a rush, like a squirrel after acorns. Fireflies did not rush. Fireflies took their time.

“Three.”

In with the glow. Out with the dark.

“Four.”

Pip noticed that his tail had stopped flicking. He had not told it to stop. It just had.

“Five.”

Hush, hush, went the ferns.

Juniper’s voice got quieter with every number, until it was hardly more than a rumble under the ground. “Six.”

A second firefly joined the first. Then a third. Pip did not try to count them all. He stayed with his one firefly, the one over his nose, and breathed with it. In with the glow. Out with the dark.

Up above, the stars were still there. The leaf star and the snail star and the one shaped like Dot sneezing. Pip knew they were there. He could look at them tomorrow. They were not going anywhere. Stars are very patient like that.

“Seven,” said Juniper, very softly.

Pip rolled onto his side. He pulled his little legs in close. The ground was warm from the day, and his cousins were a heap of warm pebbles beside him.

“Eight.”

His eyes, his big interesting eyes, were getting heavy. The firefly glowed, and he saw it. The firefly went dark, and he almost did not open his eyes again to catch the next glow.

“Nine,” said Juniper. Or maybe she only thought it. It was hard to tell now.

In with the glow. Out with the dark.

Hush, hush, went the ferns.

The firefly drifted lower. Pip’s breath was slow. So slow. In. Out.

Juniper lowered her big head to the ground. She did not say ten. She did not need to.

In. Out.

The stars twinkled. The fireflies glowed. The ferns went hush, hush.

Pip’s eyes closed. One slow breath. Another slow breath. His small chest went up, and down, and up, and down.

Hush, hush.

The little dinosaur was asleep.

Somewhere in the long grass, one last firefly glowed, and went dark, and did not glow again, because it was sleeping too.

Hush, hush.

Goodnight, Pip.

Hush.

How to read this one aloud

• Give Juniper a low, slow voice, and drop it a little on every number. By “seven” you should be close to a whisper.
• Breathe with the fireflies yourself. Say “in” as you breathe in and “out” as you breathe out. Most children copy the rhythm without being asked, which is the whole point of the story.
• The natural stopping point is right after “Stars are very patient like that.” If your child is asleep by then, stop there. The ending will keep for another night.
• If your child is still awake at the end, ask one quiet question: “What shape is your favorite star?” Then say goodnight and leave it there.
• This story runs about 6 minutes, which suits most 2 to 5 year olds. If that feels long for your child, our guide on how long a bedtime story should be has shorter options, and bedtime stories by age explains what tends to work at each stage. For a similar quiet story, try the very small dragon with the warm breath.