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You're built to win it. Welcome to SnoozeCast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us at snewscast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. This episode is dedicated to Asher and Gabriela and it is brought to you by a bunch of florist flowers. Tonight we'll read the opening to Stormy, Misty's Full, a children's novel written by Marguerite Henry and published in 1963. The Chincatee Cpony, also known as the Acetique Horse, is a breed of horse that developed and now lives within a semi-ferral island population off the U.S. states of Virginia and Maryland. The Chinca Teague Pony is one of many breeds of feral horses in the United States, but it was made famous by the series of pony books written by this author about

Misty, the mother of Stormy. The story describes events on the island during a

Powerful Storm in 1962.

Let's get cozy.

Close your eyes. Relax your body into the softness of your bed. Now, take a few deep breaths. In the gigantic Atlantic Ocean, just off the coast of Virginia, a sliver of land lies exposed to the smile of the sun and the fury of wind and tide. It almost missed being an island, for it is only inches above the sea. The early Indians who pulled over from the mainland to hunt deer and otter and beaver named this wind rumpled island Chinco-Tig, the land across the water. Today a causeway, five miles long, connects it with the eastern shore of Virginia. Sometimes, when the sea breaks loose, it swallows the causeway. Then, the people on the island are wholly isolated. But most of the time, Chinca Teague enjoys the protection of a neighbour island, a great long rib of white sandy hills. The island is called Asateeg by the Indians, who referred to it as Outrider. They named it well for it acts as a big brother to Chinink a teak, protecting it from crashing winds and the high waves of the Atlantic. For many years now, Acetig has been preserved as a wildlife refuge for ponies and deer and migrating waterfowl. On clear days, herds of the wild ponies can be seen thundering along its shores, mains and tails flying in the wind. Acetique then belongs to the wild things, but Chinkoteek belongs to the people, sturdy island folk who live by raising chickens, and by gathering the famous chinkoteek oysters and clams and diamond-backed tarot pen. The one big joyous celebration of their year comes toward the end of July on Pony Penning Day. Then, the volunteer firemen round up the wild ponies on Acetique force them to swim the channel to chink a teak and pen them up for pony buyers and tourists who come from near and far. Of course, only the young colts are gentle enough to be sold. The money from the auction is used to buy fire fighting equipment to protect the fisher folk and chicken farmers who live on chinkateek. There is one family whom the firemen look upon as friendly competitors in their yearly pony sale. They are the Beeps, Grandpa and Grandma and their grandchildren, Paul and Maureen. Except for Grandma, whose father was a sea captain, they call themselves Hossman. They are in the pony business the year round. Their place at the southern end of the island is known simply as Pony Ranch. Chapter 1 The clock on the shelf pointed to five as young Paul Bebe, his hair tussled and his eyes still full of sleep, came into the kitchen. Paul did not even glance at the clock, though it was a handsome piece, showing the bridge of a ship with a captain at the wheel. For Paul, his banty rooster was clock enough. Grandpa Bebe was bent over the sink, noisily washing his face. He came up for air, his head cocked like a robin listening for worms. Just hark at that head rooster, he grinned. His face dripping. He reached for the towel Grandma was handing him. That bantie. He went on as he mopped his face. His better than any old clock with a tinkly alarm on it. Why? He's even more to depend on then the fancy ticker your sea fair and father brung us from France. He gave grandma a playful wink. What's more? You never have to wind him up, and I never note him to sleep overtime. Me neither. Paul said, even when it's cloudy. The old man and the boy went thudding in their sock feet to the back hall, to their jackets hanging over the wash tubs, and their boots standing side by side. Grandma's voice tailed them. Wrap up good now, winds bitter. She came to the doorway and looked sharply at Paul. I gots to brew some sassafrasth roots to purd and yop. I declare you look older and tireder than your grandpa. Who wouldn't look look tuckered out. Grandpa asked in pride. Paul took the midnight watch on Misty. This household, grandma sputtered, does more word in about Misty having a cold than if she was a queen birth in a crown prince. Well, she is! Paul exclaimed. She's a movie queen. Yep. Grandpa joined in. Name me another chinketig pony who's a star of a moving picture like Misty is. And her being famous? Well, it's made a heap of difference to pony ranch. Paul nodded vehemently. Yes, Grandma, you know we sell more ponies because of her, and we can buy better fodder. In this summer I'm going to build her a fine stable and I'll never hear the end of it." grumbled. Our place is a regular mecca for folks coming to see her, and when she has her coat, lend a mercy, there'll be thicker and oysters in a pie. Paul and Grandpa were out the door. Grandma's sputtering bothered them no more than a mosquito before the fuzz comes off its stinger. A faint light had begun to melt the darkness and there was a brim of dawn on the sea. The wind blowing from the southwest in strong and frequent gusts rippled the old dead marsh grasses until they and the waves were won. As grandpa and Paul hurried to the barn, a golden-ferd callie leaped down from his bed in the pickup truck

and came galloping to meet them. High-skipper. Paul gave him a rough and tumble greeting, but his heart wasn't in it. He caught at grandfather's sleeve. Grandpa, he said, talking fast. But Jackson's got some she-goats up to his place. So? Well, if Misty should be bad off, what inter-nation you get in at? Maybe we ought to buy a goat just in case. In case what? Misty couldn't give enough milk for a cold. The old man pulled himself loose from Paul. Get out of my way, boy. What's the sense to begin and worry now? We got chores to do. Listen at them ponies, raising a ruckus to be fed, and all the ducks and geese are quacking and a

clacking and carrying on. Everybody's hungry, including me. But grandpa, Paul was insistent. You yourself said April or May colts have a better chance than March ones? The old man stopped and mid-stried.

It just didn't fit in for colts to drink goat's milk. He said roughly, especially Misty's colt. He clumped off toward the corn crib, muttering and shaking his head. squeeze between the fence rails and ran toward the maid over a chicken coop that was misty's barn. He heard her whinnying in a low, rumbly tone. His heart pumping in expectancy, he unbolted her door. She came to him at once, touching on nostrils as if he were another pony, then nibbling his straw-colored hair so that he couldn't see what he was looking for. Gently he pushed her away and stepped back. He looked underneath and around her, but there was no little cult lying in the straw. He looked at her sides. They were heavily rounded just as they had been at midnight and the night before and the night before that. Surely it'll come today. Paul said to her, for a while it can live right in here with you. But soon as school's out, I gotta build us more stalls. Maureen can help.

Help what? Came a girl's voice. Paul turned to see his sister standing on tiptoe looking over his

shoulder. Help me pump. He added hastily.

Ball, Marine, Grandpa shouted from the corn crib. Quit lally-gaggin, water them bony's. Most of Grandpa's herd were still away on winter pasture at deep hole on the north end of the island.

There the pine trees grew and groves, and the whole area was thickly underbrushed so the ponies could keep warm out of the wind. And they could fend for themselves, living on wild kinks bush and court grass. Here at Pony Ranch, Grandpa kept only his personal riding horses, Billy Blaze, and dependable old watch-eyes, as well as a few half-wild ponies from Acetique. All winter long, this little bunch of of ragged creatures ran free out on the marshland.

Finn. All winter long, this little bunch of ragged creatures ran free out on the marshland, fenced in only by the sea. But every morning they came thundering in, mains and tails blowing like licks of flame. the gate, they nade shrilly, demanding fresh water and an ear to of corn. It was Paul's and Maureen's duty to pump gallons and gallons of water into the old tin wash tub and dull out the ears of corn. It's your turn to pump. Maureen said. I'll let the bunch in, and I'll parcel out the corn. Don't you start bossing me?" Paul retorted. One grandma to a house is enough. Then he grinned. You pumped too slow anyway. Besides, it develops my muscles for roundup time. As Maureen let the ponies into the corral, too at a time, they dashed to the watering tub and drank greedily. Paul could hardly pump fast enough. He drew in a breath. Cold air or no, this was the best time of day. And no matter how hard and fast his arms worked, nor how many times he had to fill the tub, he liked doing it. It made him feel big and strong, almost godlike, as if he had been placed over this hungry herd and was their good provider. He liked the sounds of their snorting and fighting to be first, and he liked to watch them plunge their muzzles deep in the water, and suck it in between their teeth. He even liked it when they came up slaubering, and the wind sent spatters against his face. Usually Misty was first at the watering tub, for she ran free with the others out on the marsh. But now that her cold was due, she was kept in her stall, where she could be watched constantly. So Paul watered her last. He wanted her to take her time and to drink her fill without a bunch of ponies squealing and pawing at the gate, getting her excited. But today, even with the tub all to herself, she acted skittory as dandelion fluff, not drinking, but playing with the water, blowing at it until it made ripples. Paul wondered why she wasn't drinking. Did that mean it would be soon? He stopped pumping and gave himself up to bitter sweet worry. It could be this very morning, and then he'd have to stay home from school to help dry off the cold, and to see that Misty was a good nurseer. Oh, Marine! Grandpa's voice boomed like a foghorn. Put Misty in and come help me feed." He stood there in the barnyard with his head thrown back, shrilling to the heavens. Weee-de-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee. The call was a magnet, pulling in the The foul, wild ones from the sky, tame ones from the pasture, geese and ducks and gals, cocks and chickens and guinea hens came squawking. Above the racket, Grandpa barked out his orders. You children shook off this corn for the critters. He handed them a coal scuttle, heaped high with ears. I got to police the migrators. Dad blasted if I let them Canadian hunkers hog all the feed whilst my own go hungry. Faster than crows, the children shilled out the corn until the scuttle held nothing but cobs, and at last the barnyard settled down to a picking and a packing in peace. and pa scanned the sky for stragglers, but he saw none. Only gray wool clouds, and an angry wind pulling them apart. Looks like a storm brewing, don't it? Paul laughed. You should have been a weatherman, Grandpa, instead of a husband, here always predicting. All is right, ain't I? Here, Maureen, you run and hang up the scuttle. I can whiff grandma's bacon clean out here, and I'm hungry enough to eat the hunches off a grasshopper. It was a bumper breakfast.

The table was heaped with stacks of hotcakes and thick slices of bacon. Grandpa took one admiring look at his plate before he tackled it. Nobody, he said.

Not nobody but your grandma understands slab bacon.

Over to the diner in Temperanceville, they frazzle all the sweetness out in it so that there's no fat left. Tastes like my old gumboots. Grandma beamed. If someone had given her a string of diamonds or a bunch of florist flowers, she couldn't have looked more pleased. Clarence, she asked, in her best company voice, will you have honey or molasses on your hot cakes? How can I have molasses when I ain't had no lashes at all? Paul and Maureen giggled at Grandpa's old joke, not just to please him, but because it tickled them. And when they went visiting, they sprang it on their cousins every chance they got. Quiet settled down over the table, except for the clatter of forks and grandpa slurping his coffee. With second helpings, talk began. Grandma, Paul asked, how do you like a few goats, a Billy maybe, but a she goat for sure? You see, she could be a nurse or just in case. Grandmaw put down her fork. Paul bead, I swan, it must be mental telegraphy. Why? Only last night I dreamt we had a whole flock of goats, and Misty friended with a nice old nanny, and she let her kid run with Misty's baby and they'd bud each other and play real cute. Grandpa clamped his hands over both ears. I'm deep. He bellowed. I hear an area word. He got up from the table. Six o'clock. He announced, you children light out and clean misty stall. School time will be here for you know it. The season afrett today and there's a look to the sky I don't like. No time for Gavin. Shaw! Grandma said, my daddy, who was the captain of the, yes, siety. He mimicked. Your daddy, who was captain of the Alberta, the last sailing vessel here to Chinkateag, he'd say, well, what do you say? He'd say, grandma repeated, proud of her knowledge of the sea, there's barely a rift of waves in the bay, glasses down low, and we're due for a change in the weather. But Clarence, aren't we always in for a change? CHAPTER 2 A DUCK IN THE HOURS TROF When Misty's stall was mocked out, and her manger filled with sweet hay, Paul and Maureen burst into the kitchen, laughing and out of breath. You say it Maureen, know you! Paul shuffled his feet. He glanced side-long at grandma. Me and Maureen, I and Maureen, Maureen and I, well, he plurred, we'd like to say some Bible verses with a little change to one of them. Grandma almost dropped the cup she was wiping. She spun around smiling in surprise. There's no call to blush about quoting from the good book. She said, it's a fine thing. Paul swallowed hard. His eyes flew to Maureen's. You say it, he urged. Maureen looks straight at grandma. Last Sunday in church, she spoke quickly and earnestly. Preacher read, there's a time to sew and a time to reap. Yes, that's what he said, Paul nodded, and he said, there's a time to cry and a time to laugh, And a time to love and a time to hate, Maureen added, Paul began shouting like the preacher, There's a time to make war and a time to make peace. How about that? Grandma's eyes were shinier than her spectacles. You heard every bit of the message, and here I thought you two were doing crossword puzzles all the time. Now then, what's the made-up part? She asked encouragingly? The answer came loud and in unison. There's a time to go to school and a time to stay home. And just when is that? Grandma demanded. When a mare is ready to full, Paul said with a look of triumph. The kitchen grew very still. Grandma shook out the damp towel and hung it above the stove. To gain thinking time, she put the knives and forks in the drawer and each teaspoon in the spoon rack.

Then she... and forks in the drawer, and each teaspoon in the spoon rack. Then, she glanced from one eager face to the other. You two ever seen a wild mayor birthing her young-in? They both shook their heads. Nor a vie, nor your grandpa neither. She looked far out on the marsh, at the ponies grazing peacefully. Well, the way the mares do it, she said it last. Is to go off a day, maybe more, and hide in some lonely spot. And the next time you see her, come to the watering trough, there's a frisky youngster dancing alongside. Why? One mayer swam clean cross the channel to Hummocky Isle to have her baby. And three days later they both come back and joined the herd.

Even that little baby swam. But their wild grandma, Paul said, misty is different. She's lived with people since she was a tiny foal. Ma took an old cork and a can of powder and began scouring the stains on her carving knives. She nodded slowly and misty smart. If she needs help, she'll come up here to the fence and let us know right smart quick, same she does when she's thirsty. Now, you both wash up and change your clothes. You touched off the wrong fuse when you quoted Bible verses to get excused from school. But grandma, Paul persisted. How can Miss D. Tell anyone she needs help when grandma's in town shuckin' oysters and were trapped in school and grandma didn't answer? Yet somehow she interrupted. She handed Maureen a pitcher of milk and a sauce dish. As if by magic, wait a minute, a big, tiger-striped cat appeared from under the stove and began lapping the milk even before Maureen finished pouring it. Tell you what, Grandma said after a moment's thought, I promised to go out every hour and look in on misty. You will, that I will. And will you telephone school in case she needs us? I'll even promise you that, cross my heart. Somewhat appeased, Paul and Maureen washed and hurried into their school clothes. When they dashed out of the house, Grandpa was climbing into his truck. Hop in, he said. I'll give you a lift. He put the key in the ignition, but he didn't start the car. A blast of surprise escaped him.

Great balls of fire! Look! What is it, Grandpa? He pointed a finger at a big white goose upended in the watering tub.

Just look at him, Waller.

...