Teeny Tiny Timbo – Read and Print

By Rachel Dunstan Muller, copyright 2022

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When teeny, tiny Timbo was born, he was no bigger than a goldfish. In fact, for the first year of his life he lived in an empty goldfish bowl – right on his mother’s bedside table. It wasn’t so bad. He had a teeny, tiny crib – which came from his sister’s dollhouse. And he had a teeny, tiny rug to go on the floor, and he even had his own teeny, tiny teddy bear.

But as Timbo got older, he didn’t want to spend all his time in a goldfish bowl. Of course not! He wanted to explore the world, to see all the ordinary and extraordinary things that the rest of his family got to see every day.

“But, Timbo,” said his mother. “The world is so big, and you are so small. It would be much safer for you to stay in your goldfish bowl. What if someone doesn’t see you – and they step on you, or sit on you? What if you fall through a crack, or get stuck under a cushion?”

Timbo stood as tall as he could – which was only about as tall as your baby finger. But still, he stood tall and put his teeny, tiny fists on his teeny, tiny waist. “Mama, I can’t live in a goldfish bowl forever. Just give me a whistle to wear around my neck, and if someone comes close without seeing me, I’ll blow a warning. And if I ever fall down a crack or get stuck under a cushion, I’ll blow so hard, everyone in the house will hear me.”

Well, Timbo’s parents agreed that that was a pretty good idea. So Timbo’s father brought home a teeny, tiny whistle, and Timbo’s mother hung it around Timbo’s teeny, tiny neck. And it worked. Even though it was a very small whistle, it made a very big sound!

“Tweet, tweet, TWEET!”

Every Saturday morning, Timbo’s father woke up early to make pancakes for everyone in the house: teeny, tiny pancakes for Timbo, and regular-size pancakes for everyone else. Timbo liked to watch his father cook, and so he got up early too. He perched on top of a box of baking powder, and kept a lookout for roll-away blueberries – which were about the size of large watermelons to Timbo.

“You be careful up there,” his father warned. “You don’t want to fall into the batter!”

But one rainy Saturday morning, Timbo’s father had to leave the kitchen for a moment to go and answer the doorbell. Now Timbo had always wanted to stir the batter all by himself, without anyone’s help. The spoon alone was about three times taller than Timbo, and compared to little Timbo, the bowl was the size of a large swimming pool. But that didn’t stop Timbo from pushing his box of baking powder right up to the edge of the bowl, and then reaching out to grab hold of the giant spoon. But the spoon was a little further away than he expected. So, he stretched a little more, and a little more, and a teensy bit more – until splat – he fell face-first into the batter.

Thank goodness Timbo was an excellent swimmer! In fact, swimming in the bathtub was one of his very favourite things. But swimming in a bathtub filled with water is very different than swimming through a bowl of thick, goopy pancake batter. Still, that is exactly what Timbo had to do, past all the floating blueberries, until at last he reached the wooden spoon. And that’s where Timbo’s father found Timbo when he came running a moment later: blowing his tiny whistle, clinging to the wooden spoon, and covered head to toe with goopy batter. But if you think Timbo was unhappy in that moment, you’d be wrong. Under that thick batter, Timbo had a great big grin on his teeny, tiny face.

That adventure was just the beginning. Later that very afternoon, as the rain was coming down outside, Timbo built himself a little boat from an empty milk carton and added a straw and a paper sail. And when everything was shipshape, Timbo put on his teeny, tiny raincoat, and his teeny, tiny lifejacket and went outside to launch his boat in a puddle in the front garden.

Now it had been raining for a solid week, and to Timbo, that puddle was the size of a small lake. Timbo waved goodbye to his family, cast off, and away he sailed – as happy as any brave sailor could be. But it didn’t take him long to reach the other side, and when he did, he saw more water flowing away from the puddle, down the garden path until it reached a stream. Now to you or me, that stream was just a trickle of rainwater running next to the sidewalk; there was barely enough to splash in. But to teeny, tiny Timbo, that little stream of water was like his very own river. And before anyone could stop him, he pointed his boat into the current, and off he went.

Well, you can imagine how proud Timbo was – Captain Timbo – floating down his own river, past his own house, and the next house, and the house after that. Past a whole neighbourhood of houses, in fact. But as he went, that little river began to flow faster. Faster and faster, until it carried Timbo’s boat down a steep bank and – splash – into a real river.

Suddenly, Captain Timbo wasn’t so sure about his adventure. There were other boats in that river – not little toy boats or milk cartons like Timbo’s boat, but great big tugboats, and sail boats, and speed boats. And Timbo knew that if one of those big boats didn’t crush him first, there was a good chance the river was going to sweep him all the way to the sea.

Now do you think Timbo panicked? He did not. He may have been tiny, but he was also brave, and he knew just what to do. He took out his whistle, and he blew it with all his might. He blew, and he blew, and he blew. But that great big river was so noisy with the rain falling, and the water flowing, and the other ship captains all tooting their horns – that no one heard Timbo’s teeny, tiny whistle. No one, that is, but a passing seagull.    

“You’re an odd looking fish,” the seagull said, as it flew down to investigate. “A little herring, perhaps? A strange sardine?”

“I’m not a fish,” said Timbo, with his hands on his hips. “I’m a human boy.”

“The smallest human boy I’ve ever seen,” said the seagull.

“Exactly,” said Timbo. “Small enough that you could carry me on your back.”

“Now why would I want to do that?” said the seagull.

“That’s easy,” said Timbo. “If you fly me all the way to my house, my parents are sure to give you all the herring and sardines you can eat.”

Well, the seagull liked the sound of that! So teeny, tiny Timbo left his little boat and climbed onto the seagull’s back. Then as Timbo held on tight, off the seagull flew, over the river, over the road, over all the houses in the neighbourhood – until at last they reached Timbo’s own house.

And it was just as Timbo had promised. His parents were so grateful to get their teeny, tiny boy back from his big adventure, that they positively showered the seagull with pickled herring from their fridge and canned sardines from their cupboard.

And as for Timbo, all that excitement had left him more than a little sleepy! He ate a teeny, tiny supper, took a teeny, tiny bath, and climbed into his teeny, tiny bed. But I can assure you – as his head sank into his teeny, tiny pillow that night, Timbo was already dreaming about the next adventure.

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