Original Baby Stories to Read Aloud

Above a row of flats floated a raincloud with one small pocket. Inside it, she kept a single drop.

“Is that all?” asked the wind.

“It is enough to begin,” said the cloud.

Below, a girl called Neri was looking at a pot of dry soil. Yesterday she had planted a seed. Today there was still only soil.

The cloud leaned over the pot. Plip. Her one drop landed beside the seed.

Neri fetched a little water. Her grandfather moved the pot into the morning light. Then they waited.

Nothing happened that they could see.

“Shall we tell it about our day?” Neri asked.

So she told the seed about a yellow bus, a missing sock and the smell of warm toast.

Each morning, she came back. One morning, a green loop lifted through the soil.

The cloud checked her empty pocket and smiled.

Down below, Neri whispered, “Hello. We have been making room for you.”

Read-aloud idea: pause after “Plip.” For an older child, ask what Neri might tell the seed tomorrow. For a baby, simply repeat the sound and follow their interest.

Mina lived on the eighth floor. Every evening, she and Papa rode the lift home.

The number above the door glowed. One. Two. Three.

“Do the numbers get tired?” Mina asked.

“Let us listen,” Papa said.

At four, the lift gave a quiet hum. At five, Mina hummed back. At six, Papa joined her.

At seven, they both stopped to take a breath.

Eight.

The doors opened. Their neighbour was carrying a bag of oranges. Mina held Papa’s hand and stepped out with him.

“This one is for your supper,” the neighbour said, giving Papa an orange.

At home, Papa peeled it into a long curling ribbon. Mina put the peel on a plate like a tiny orange road.

“Where does it go?” he asked.

“Past four, five, six and seven,” she said. “Then home.”

They shared the orange at the table. Through the window, another lift light climbed slowly up the block.

Somebody else was coming home.

Read-aloud idea: count slowly or hum between the numbers. There is no need to finish if your baby turns away or needs a break.

At the edge of the park stood a green bench. All morning, it collected sounds.

It caught the tap of a walking stick and the squeak of a bicycle. It caught a myna calling from the tree above.

But sounds were slippery things. By lunchtime, every one had gone.

“Could you leave me one?” the bench asked the tree.

The tree rustled its leaves. “I cannot make it stay.”

That afternoon, Jo arrived with her grandmother. They sat down together. Jo had been walking a long way, and she had no story left to tell.

Her grandmother did not ask for one.

They listened to a bus sigh at the crossing. They listened to someone sweeping a path. A leaf turned over in the breeze.

Then Jo leaned against her grandmother and let out one small, comfortable sigh.

The bench tried very hard to hold it.

Of course, it slipped away too.

But the next afternoon, Jo came back.

“This is our listening place,” she said.

The bench creaked softly beneath them. It had not saved a sound after all.

It had saved a place.

Try a pause: leave a quiet moment after the leaf turns over. You can listen together without naming every sound.

Lina found a blue envelope in the drawer.

“Who shall we write to?” she asked.

Mum rested a hand on her growing tummy. “Someone we have not met yet.”

Lina thought carefully. She could not describe the baby's favourite colour. She did not know whether the baby would like the rain.

So she drew what she knew.

She drew the round kitchen table, with a space beside her chair. She drew the tree outside, where the birds made a terrible fuss at breakfast. She drew Dad's slippers, pointing in different directions.

At the bottom she drew a very small question mark.

“What does that say?” Mum asked.

“It says we don't know you yet.”

“That seems right,” said Mum.

Lina put the drawing inside the envelope. On the front, Mum wrote: For when you are here.

“Can I tell the baby about it now?” Lina asked.

She sat beside Mum and described the table, the birds and the muddled slippers.

Then she added one thing she had forgotten to draw.

“There will be room for your questions too.”

Make it yours: describe one ordinary thing in your own home. No response or finished story is needed.

In this make-believe sky, the moon washed her scarf every Thursday.

She rinsed it in a bowl of silver light and hung it on a line between two clouds.

One evening, a small sock drifted past.

It was yellow, with a crooked blue stripe.

“Are you lost?” asked the moon.

“Only from my other sock,” it said.

The moon made room on the line. The sock dangled beside her scarf, looking very small.

“I do not shine,” it said.

“You do not have to,” said the moon. “You may simply hang here.”

A passing cloud stopped for a look.

“I saw a yellow sock near the morning,” it said.

The little sock waved its toe. The cloud went to fetch the other one.

While they waited, the moon's scarf fluttered left. The sock fluttered right. Then they fluttered together.

At last, two yellow socks hung side by side.

The moon took down her dry scarf.

“Thank you for the space,” said the socks.

“There is plenty of sky,” she said.

And she left a little length of line empty, just in case.

A line to repeat: “There is plenty of sky.” Say it in your own voice, softly or playfully.

After the rain, Sami and Auntie walked slowly along the sheltered path.

Beside them was a puddle with a leaf in it.

“That is a boat,” said Auntie.

“Today it is a post office,” said Sami.

He crouched beside Auntie, on the dry part of the path. In the water he could see a window, a cloud and the end of his own nose.

“What shall we send?” Auntie asked.

Sami considered the cloud. It looked as if it had been working hard.

“A thank-you for the rain.”

He said the words to the puddle. A breeze wrinkled the water, and the cloud broke into little silver pieces.

“Posted,” said Auntie.

Then it was her turn.

“Dear tree,” she said, looking at the branches reflected beside the window. “Thank you for the shade.”

The leaf turned once in the water.

On the way home, they passed another puddle. This one held a patch of blue sky.

Sami stopped.

“There is a reply.”

“What does it say?”

He looked up. Above the flats, the clouds were parting.

“You are welcome outside again.”

Try a sound: make a little “plip” for the rain. For a child who wants to join in, ask what message they would send.

Rae folded a bird from a square of green paper.

One wing was wider than the other. Its beak pointed a little to the left.

“Will it fly?” asked her brother Kit.

Rae held it above the table. It dipped, turned over and landed beside a spoon.

“Not today,” she said.

Kit fetched a fresh square of paper. Rae thought he was going to make a better bird.

Instead, he folded a small chair.

He put it beside the spoon and settled the green bird on it.

“Perhaps it came for lunch.”

Rae laughed. She drew a round pond on a scrap of paper and placed it in front of the chair.

Kit drew three reeds. One was bent.

Then Rae drew a second bird. This one had a very large tail.

“Will that one fly?” Kit asked.

“It doesn't have to,” said Rae. “It came to visit.”

They made another chair.

When Dad came to set the table, he found two paper birds looking across a pond.

He moved the spoon a little.

“Shall we give our visitors some room?”

And all through lunch, the crooked wing pointed towards a friend.

A question for later: who else could visit the paper pond? You can imagine an answer together without making any paper objects.

Every morning, Grandpa tapped his mug twice before pouring his tea.

Tap, tap.

“Why do you do that?” asked Noor.

Grandpa looked at the mug. “I think I am saying good morning to it.”

Noor tried it with her hands on the table.

Tap, tap.

Outside, a bird answered with two quick notes. Noor opened her eyes wide.

“It knows your morning.”

After breakfast, they went downstairs. Grandpa tapped twice on the lift button panel with one finger, then pressed the button once.

“Good morning, lift,” whispered Noor.

At the park, the gardener was sweeping fallen flowers from the path. Noor waved. Grandpa said hello.

The gardener rested his broom and tapped its handle twice against his palm.

Tap, tap.

Noor grinned all the way home.

That evening, Grandpa was reading in his chair when he heard a small sound at the open doorway.

Tap, tap.

There stood Noor, holding a drawing of a mug, a bird and a broom.

“It works in the evening too,” she said.

Grandpa put down his book.

“Then good evening, Noor. Come and tell me about your picture.”

Share the rhythm: say “tap, tap” or tap your own palm gently. Let the repeated words be enough if your baby is just listening.

A little breeze came to the garden.

It had no bag, no shoes and nowhere it had to be.

First it found a leaf.

“May I pass?” asked the breeze.

The leaf lifted its edge.

“This way,” it whispered.

The breeze slipped underneath. Shhh.

Next it found a curtain by an open window.

“May I pass?” asked the breeze.

The curtain made a little doorway.

“This way,” it whispered.

The breeze slipped through. Shhh.

Inside, a parent was sitting with a baby, telling a story about the garden.

The breeze stirred one curl of hair.

The parent paused.

“Did the garden come to visit?”

The baby made a small sound.

The parent answered with another.

The little breeze listened. There was something here it could not carry: one voice making room for another.

So it left the curtain still and went gently on its way.

Outside, the leaf lifted once more.

Shhh.

Read it your way: repeat “May I pass?” and make a soft “shhh” in your own voice. No sound effects or movement are needed.

The window could see the whole courtyard, but it could not decide when morning began.

“Is it morning now?” it asked the sky.

The sky was still dark blue.

“A little more,” said the sky.

A kitchen light came on across the courtyard. A person in a striped shirt opened a cupboard.

“Is it morning now?”

“A little more,” said the sky.

Downstairs, someone rolled a trolley along the path. Its wheels made a low rumble, then grew quiet.

A pale line appeared above the roofs.

The window watched it turn pink, then peach, then almost gold.

Behind the window, a parent opened the curtains with one hand. In the other arm was a baby.

“Look,” said the parent. “Our tree.”

The leaves were green again.

The window had been waiting for one grand beginning. Instead, morning had arrived as a light, a rumble, a colour and a voice.

“Is it morning now?” it asked.

But the sky did not need to answer.

Someone inside had already said hello.

A small pause: linger on “pink, then peach, then almost gold.” You can name one colour around you, or keep reading.

Tavi had a hello that was too small to hear.

It was a lift of the hand, with four fingers opening like a fan.

On their morning walk, Mum held Tavi's other hand.

At the gate, the cleaner looked up from his broom.

Tavi opened four fingers.

The cleaner smiled and lifted his hand too.

“There goes one hello,” said Mum.

At the bakery window, a woman was arranging bread on a tray.

Tavi opened four fingers.

The woman nodded through the glass.

“There goes another.”

At the crossing, a child in a stroller was looking at the trees.

Tavi waited beside Mum until it was safe to cross. Then, from the other pavement, Tavi gave one small wave.

The child waved both hands.

“That was a very big answer,” Tavi said.

By the time they came home, Tavi thought all the hellos must have been used up.

But Grandpa was at the door.

He lifted his hand, and Tavi's fingers opened again.

“I still have one!”

Mum smiled.

“Perhaps a hello grows when someone gives it back.”

A familiar ending: say your baby's name after “hello.” A spoken greeting is enough; there is no need for your baby to copy a wave.