Music Welcome to Snuescast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us at snoozecast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. If you'd like to get an email once a week with upcoming sleep stories and other news, subscribe to this newsletter at snoozecast.com. This episode is brought to you by an old sheep dog. Tonight, we'll read the opening to the story at the Bay, written Catherine Mansfield published in 1922. Mansfield was a New Zealand writer, widely considered one of the most influential and important authors of the modernist movement. Her works are celebrated across the world and have been published in 25 languages. This story, based on her childhood growing up in the suburbs of New Zealand, represents Man's Field's best mature work, a luminous example of her literary impressionism.

Let's get cozy. Close your eyes. Close your eyes. Relax your body into the softness of your bed. Now under a white sea mist. The big, bush-covered hills at the back were smothered. You could not see where they ended, and the paddocks and bungalows began. The sandy road was gone, and the paddocks and bungalows the other side of it. There were no white dunes covered with reddish grass beyond them. There was nothing to mark which was beach, and where was the sea. A heavy dew had fallen. The grass was blue.

Big drops hung on the bushes and just did not fall.

The silvery fluffy toy toy was limp on its long stalks. And all the marigolds and the pinks

in the bungalow gardens were bowed to the earth with wetness.

Drenched were the cold fuchsias, round pearls of dew lay on the flat nistersham leaves. It looked as though the sea had beaten up softly in the darkness, as though one immense wave had come rippling, rippling how far. Perhaps if you had waked up in the middle of the night, you might have seen a big fish flicking in at the window and gone again. Ah ah, sounded the sleepy sea, and from the bush there came the sound of little streams flowing, quickly, lightly, slipping between the smooth stones, gushing into ferny basins and out again. And there was the splashing of big drops on large leaves and something else. What was it? A faint stirring and shaking, the snapping of a twig,

and then such silence that it seemed someone was listening. Round the corner of Crescent Bay between the piled up masses of broken rock, a flock of sheep came pattering. They were huddled together, a small tossing woolly mass, and their thin, stick-like legs Trotted along, as if the cold and the quiet had frightened them. Behind them an old sheepdog, his soaking paws covered with sand, ran along with his nose to the ground, but carelessly, as if thinking of something else. And then in the rocky gateway, the shepherd himself appeared. He was a lean, upright old man, in a coat that was covered with a web of tiny drops. Fell the trousers tied under the knee, and a wide wake with a folded blue hanker chief round the brim. One hand was crammed into his belt. The other grasped a beautifully smooth yellow stick. And as he walked, taking his time, he kept up a very soft light whistling, an airy, far away fluting that sounded mournful and tender. The old dog cut an ancient caper, too, and then drew up sharp, ashamed of his levity, and walked a few dignified paces by his master's side. The sheep ran forward in little pattering rushes. They began to bleed, and ghostly flocks and herds answered them from under the sea. Ba-ba-ba. For a time, they seemed to be always on the same piece of ground. Their head was stretched the sandy road with shallow puddles. The same soaking bushes showed on either side and the same shadowy palings. Then something immense came into view, an enormous, shock-haired giant with his arms stretched out. It was the big gum tree outside Mrs. Stubb's shop, and as they passed, there was a strong whiff of eucalyptus. And now big spots of light gleamed in the mist. The shepherd stopped whistling. He rubbed his red nose and wet beard on his wet sleeve and, screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of the sea. The sun was rising. It was marvelous how quickly the mist thinned, sped away, dissolved from the shallow plain. Rolled up from the bush and was gone as if in a hurry to escape. Big twists and curls jostled and shouldered each other as the silvery beams brought in. The far away sky, a bright, pure blue, was reflected in the puddles and the drops, being along the telegraph poles, flashed into points of light. Now the leaping glittering sea was so bright it made one's eyes ache to look at it. The shepherd drew a pipe. The bowl as small as an acorn out of his breast pocket. Fumbled for a chunk of speckled tobacco, paired off a few shavings and stuffed the bull. He was a grave, fine-looking old man. As he lit up and the blue smoke wreathed his head, the dog, watching, looked proud of him. Ba-ba-ba, the sheep spread out into a fan. They were just clear of the summer colony before the first sleeper turned over and lifted a drowsy head. Their cry sounded in the dreams of little children who lifted their arms to drag down, to cuddle the darling little wooly lambs of sleep. Then the first inhabitant appeared. It was the Bernel's cat flurry, sitting on the gatepost, far too early as usual, looking for their milk girl. When she saw the old sheep dog she sprang up quickly, arched her back, drew in her tabby head and seemed to give a little vestidious shiver. Ah, what a coarse, revolting creature," said Flory. But the old cheap dog, not looking up, wagled past, flinging out his legs from side to side. Only one of his ears twitched to prove that he saw and thought her a silly young female. The breeze of morning lifted in the bush and the smell of leaves and wet black earth mingled with the sharp smell of the sea. Marriots of birds were singing. A goldfinch flew over the shepherd's head and, perching on the tip-top of a spray, it turned to the sun, ruffling its small breast feathers. And now they had passed the fisherman's hut, past the charred-looking little where, where Lila, the milkgirl, lived with her old grand, the sheepdog, padded after, rounded them up and headed them for the steeper narrower, rocky pass that led out of Crescent Bay and towards daylight cove. Ba, ba, faint the cry came as they rocked along the fast drying road. The shepherd put away his pipe, dropping it into his breast pocket so that the little bowl hung over. And straight way, the soft, airy whistling began again. Wag ran out along a ledge of rock after something that smelled and ran back again disgusted. Then, pushing, nudging, hurrying, the sheep rounded the bend and the shepherd followed after out of sight. 2. A few moments later, the back door of one of the bungalows opened, and a figure in a broad striped bathing suit, flung down the paddock, cleared the style, rushed through the tussic grass into the hollow, staggered up the sandy hillock, and raced for dear life over the big porous stones. Over the cold, wet pebbles onto the hard sand that gleamed like oil. Splish-bush, splash-bush! The water bubbled round his legs as Stanley Bernel weighed it out exulting. First man in, as usual, he'd beat in them all again, and he swooped down to south his head and knack. Hail, brother, all hail Thou mighty one! A velvety, bass voice came booming over the water. Great Scott! Damn nation take it! Stanley lifted up to see a dark head, bobbing far out, and an arm lifted. It was Jonathan Trout there before him. Gorgeous morning. morning!'' sang the voice. ''Yes, very fine,' said Stanley briefly. Why the Dickens didn't the fellow stick to his part of the sea? Why should he come barging over to this exact spot?

Stanley gave a kick, a lunge, and struck out, swimming over arm. But Jonathan was a match for him. Up he came, his black hair sleek on his forehead, and his short beard sleek. Look here, trout.

He said, I'm in rather a hurry this morning. Your what? Jonathan was so surprised or pretended to be that he sank under the water. Then reappeared again, blowing. All I mean is," said Stanley. I have no time to, to, to fool about. I want to get this over. I'm in a hurry. I've worked to do this morning, see? Jonathan was gone before Stanley had finished. Past friend said the base voice gently, and he slid away through the water with scarcely a ripple. But curse the fellow, he'd ruin Stanley's bath, what an unpractical idiot the man was. Stanley struck out to the sea again, and then as quickly swam in again, and a way he rushed up the beach. He felt cheated. Jonathan stayed a little longer in the water. He floated, gently moving his hands like fins, and letting the sea rock his long, skinny body. It was curious, but in spite of everything, he was fond of Stanley Bernal. True, he had a fiendish desire to tease him sometimes, to poke fun at him. But at bottom, he was sorry for the fellow. There was something pathetic in his determination to make a job of everything. He couldn't help feeling he'd be caught out

one day, and then what an almighty cropper he'd come. At that moment an immense wave lifted Jonathan rode past him and broke along the beach with a joyful sound.

What a beauty! And now there came another. That was the way to live. Carelessly, recklessly, spending oneself. He got on onto his feet and began to wade towards the shore, pressing his toes into the firm, wrinkled sand. to take things easy, not to fight against the ebb and flow of life, but to give way to it. That was what was needed. It was this tension that was all wrong, to live, to live. and the perfect morning so fresh and fair, basking in the light, as The laughing at its own beauty seemed to whisper,

Why not?

Three. Barrel was alone in the living room when Stanley appeared, wearing a blue search suit, a stiff collar and a spotted tie. He looked almost uncannily clean and brushed. He was going to town for the day. Dropping into his chair, he pulled out his watch and put it beside his plate. I've just got 25 minutes," he said. He might go and see if the porridge is ready, barrel. Mother's just gone for it," said barrel. She sat down at the table and poured out his tea. Thanks. Stanley took a sip. Hello! He said in an astonished voice, You forgot in the sugar. Oh, sorry. But even then, Barrel didn't help him. She pushed the basin across. What did this mean? As Stanley helped himself. His blue eyes widened. They seemed to quiver. He shot a quick glance at his sister-in-law and leaned back. At that moment the door opened and the three little girls appeared, each carrying a porridge plate. They were dressed alike in blue jerseys and knickers. Their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair plated and pinned up in what was called a horse's tail. Behind them came Mrs. Fairfield with the tray. Carefully children, she warned, but they were taking the very greatest care. They loved being allowed to carry things. Have you said good morning to your father? Yes, Grandma. They settled themselves on the bench opposite Stanley and Barrel. Good morning, Stanley. Old Mrs. Fairfield gave him his plate. Morning, Mother. How's the boy? Splendid. He only woke up once last night, what a perfect morning. The old woman paused, her hand on the loaf of bread, to gaze out of the open door into the garden. The sea sounded. Through the wide open window, streamed the sun onto the yellow varnished walls and bare floor. Everything on the table flashed and glittered. In the middle, there was an old salad bowl filled with yellow and red nastershams. She smiled and a look of deep content shown in her eyes. Stanley pushed back his chair and got up. Coach, coach Stanley, barrels voice cried from the gate. Stanley waved his arm to Linda. No time to say goodbye, he cried and meant that as a punishment to her. He snatched his boulder hat, dashed out of the house, and swung down the garden path. Yes, the coach was there waiting, and barrel, leaninganing over the open gate, was laughing up at somebody or other just as if nothing had passed. The heartlessness of women, the way they took it for granted it was your job to slave away for them while they didn't even take the trouble to see that your walking stick wasn't lost. Kelly trailed his whip across the horses. Goodbye Stanley, cold barrel, sweetly and galey, was easy enough to say goodbye, and there she stood, idle, shading her eyes with her hand. The worst of it was Stanley had to shout goodbye too for the sake of appearances. When he saw her turn, give a little skip, and run back to the house. She was glad to be rid of him. Yes, she was thankful. Into the living room she ran and called. He's gone. Linda cried from her room. Barrel has Stanley gone. Old Mrs. Fairfield appeared, carrying the boy in his little flannel cotie. Gone? Gone? Oh, the relief. The difference it made to have the man out of the house.

Their very voices were changed as they called to one another. They sounded warm and loving and as if they shared a secret. But, barrel went over to the table. Have another cup of tea, mother. It's still hot. She wanted somehow to celebrate the fact that they could do what they liked now. There was no man to disturb them. The whole perfect day was theirs. No thank you, child," said old Mrs. Fairfield. But the way at that moment she tossed the boy up and said, A goose, a goose, aga, to him meant that she felt the same.

The little girls ran into the paddock like chickens, let out of the coop. Even Alice, the servant girl, washing up the dishes in the kitchen, caught the infection,

and you... Even Alice, the serving girl, washing up the dishes in the kitchen, caught the infection, and used the precious tank water in a perfectly reckless fashion. Oh, these men said she, and she plunged the teapot into the bowl and held it under the water even after it had stopped bubbling. Four. Wait for me, Isabelle. Kisa, wait for me. There was poor little Laude left behind again because she found it so fearfully hard to get over the style by herself. When she stood on the first step, her knees began to wobble. She grasped the post. Then you had to put one leg over. But which leg she could never decide. And when she did finally put one leg over with a sort of stamp of despair, then the feeling was awful. She was half in the paddock still, and half in the tussic grass. clutched the post desperately and lifted up her voice.

Wait for me. No, don't wait for her, Keisha. Said Isabelle. She's such a little silly. She's always making a fuss. Come on.

And she took Keisha's jersey. You can use my bucket if you come with me. She said kindly. It's bigger than yours. But Keisha couldn't leave Laottie all by herself.

She ran back to her.

By this time Lottie was very red in the face and breathing heavily. Here, put your other foot over, said Keisha, where? Lottie looked down at Keisha as if from a mountain height. Here, where my hand is, Keisha padded the place. Oh, there do you mean? Laudie gave a deep sigh and put the second foot over. Now, sort of turn round and sit down and slide. Said Kisha. But there's nothing to sit down on Keisha, said Laudie. She managed it at last, and once it was over, she shook herself and began to beam. I'm getting better at climbing over styles aren't I, Keisha? Laughty is was a very hopeful nature. The pink and the blue sun bonnet followed Isabelle as a bell's bright red sun-bonnet, up that sliding, slipping hill. At the top, they paused to decide where to go, and to have a good stare at who was there already. seen from behind, standing against the skyline,

Just accumulating largely with their speeds.

They looked like my newt puzzled explorers. Explores. you

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