In a small, warm house tucked between two tall pine trees, there lived a little bear named Bertie. Bertie had round brown ears, a soft tummy, and the very best nose for sniffing out biscuits of anyone in the whole forest.
Every evening after supper, Bertie’s mum would bring out the biscuit tin. It was round and red with little painted flowers on the lid. Bertie loved that tin almost as much as he loved what was inside it.
Mum would lift the lid. The smell of warm oats and honey and just a hint of cinnamon would drift out into the room. And Bertie would sit up very straight and fold his paws neatly in his lap.
“One each,” Mum would say. “And we eat them slowly.”
And so Bertie would take his one biscuit, and he would eat it slowly, just as he was told. First the edges. Then the middle. Then every last crumb from his paw.
And then, every single evening, without fail, Bertie would look up with his big brown eyes and say the same thing.
“Please may I have just one more?”
The Many Faces of Bertie
“No, my love,” Mum would say, very kindly. “One is enough.”
Bertie accepted this. He always did. But not before trying everything he could think of.
First he tried The Sad Face. He let his ears droop. He let his lower lip wobble just the tiniest bit. He blinked very slowly, like a sleepy owl.
Mum looked at him. She did not look in the tin.
So Bertie tried The Happy Face. He smiled so wide that his cheeks went round like two little apples. He wagged his short tail. He sat up even straighter.
Mum smiled back. She did not look in the tin.
Then Bertie tried his most powerful weapon of all, The Silly Face. He crossed his eyes. He puffed out his cheeks. He wiggled his ears one at a time, which was very hard to do and took a lot of concentration.
Mum burst out laughing. It was a big, warm, rumbly laugh that filled the whole room.
She still did not look in the tin.
“Oh, Bertie,” she said, wiping a happy tear from her eye. “Come here.”
Something Better Than a Biscuit
Mum opened her arms wide. Bertie climbed up onto the sofa beside her. She wrapped her big, soft arms around him and pulled him close.
He could smell her warm fur and the faint trace of cinnamon from the biscuit tin. He could hear her heart going thump, thump, thump, slow and steady.
Outside, the pine trees were very still. The moon was coming up over the hill, fat and pale and quiet.
“Do you know what is better than another biscuit?” Mum murmured into the top of his head.
“What?” said Bertie.
“This,” said Mum.
Bertie thought about it. His tummy was full. He was warm. His mum was here. The room smelled of oats and honey and home.
He had to admit, she might have a point.
Goodnight, Bertie
Later, when Mum carried him up to bed, Bertie looked at the red tin sitting on the shelf. The little painted flowers on the lid glowed softly in the lamplight.
Tomorrow there would be another biscuit. One perfect biscuit, eaten slowly, right down to the last crumb.
And after that, he would ask for one more. Because that was just how Bertie was. And Mum would say no. And then she would laugh at his silly face. And then she would give him a hug.
That was the best part, Bertie thought. Better even than the biscuit itself.
He closed his eyes. His paws smelled faintly of oats and cinnamon.
He was asleep before Mum even reached the door.
“Goodnight, Bertie,” she whispered.
And the moon came up a little higher, and the pine trees were very, very still.
✨ Moral: The things we already have, a warm hug, a kind laugh, someone who loves us, are always sweeter than the things we wish for.