There were undoubtedly things before this, but when I was 3 or 4 and my brother was between larval and 2, my mother used to read to us in the bathroom on bath night from this exercise-book-sized book with a blue plastic cover containing short inspirational historical stories. Like Alfred burning the cakes. Ah, and I also remember her French penfriend patiently trying to get me to understand this absolutely gloriously illustrated book about an otter in the Northwoods, which was in French. I think. Anyway that was all she spoke.
Quite a lot. Two that I remember in particular: my mother read me The Hobbit when I was four, and my father read me The Yearling when I was six. Reading to children is about the best bang for your parenting buck that it's possible to get.
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I liked both so much that I taught myself to read, so I wouldn't have to rely upon the adults to have time to provide me with stories and information.