A Lullaby of Twinkles

Barnaby the bear, a creature of habit and a champion of cozy naps, found himself in a most peculiar predicament. His bed, usually a haven of softness and slumber, felt less like a cloud and more like a particularly lumpy cloud tonight. And the reason? The stars. Oh, the stars! They were out in full force, a dazzling, shimmering, and, if Barnaby was being perfectly honest, rather *loud* display. They winked and blinked and sparkled with such an exuberant energy that Barnaby felt as though they were having a grand party just outside his window, and he hadn't been invited.

He’d tried everything. First, it was his paws. Big, furry, well-meaning paws, stuffed right over his eyes. But the light, oh, the light! It still managed to seep through the gaps, painting dancing patterns on the inside of his eyelids. Then came the pillow. He’d wrestled it over his head, a fluffy, downy shield against the celestial commotion. But even through the soft cotton, he could hear them – a silent, yet somehow very noisy, chorus of twinkles. It was like trying to sleep during a ticker-tape parade, only the confetti was made of pure, unadulterated sparkle.

Barnaby sighed, a gusty sound that ruffled his fur. He was a bear of action, not of passive suffering. If the stars were going to be this bright and this… *there*, then he’d simply have to do something about it. And then, like a bolt of lightning (a much quieter, more sensible kind of bolt), the idea struck him: he would gather all the stars. All of them! And he would tuck them away, neatly and tidily, under a giant blanket. A star-proof blanket. Then, and only then, could he finally achieve the glorious, uninterrupted sleep he so desperately craved.