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Good evening.

In this episode, I'll be reading a story of the Stone Age from Tales of Space and Time by H.G. Wells.

So let your eyes fall heavy and your breath soften as we settle in for a peaceful night's sleep.

This story is of a time beyond the memory of man, before the beginning of history.

A time when one might have walked dry-shot from France, as we call it now, to England.

And when a broad and sluggish Thames flowed through its marshes to meet its father-ine, flowing through a wide and level country that is underwater in these latter days, and which we know by the name of the North Sea.

In that remote age, the valley which runs along the foot of the Downs did not exist, and the south of Surrey was a range of hills,

fur clad on the middle slopes, and snow capped for the better part of the year.

The cause of its summit still remain as lethal and pitch-hill and hind-head.

On the lower slopes of the range, below the grassy spaces where the wild horses grazed, were forests of you and sweet chestnut and elm,

and the thickets and dark places hid the grisly bear and the hyena, and the grey apes clambered through the branches,

and still lower amidst the woodland and marsh and open grass along the way.

Did this little drama play itself out to the end that I have to tell?

50,000 years ago it was, 50,000 years if reckoning of geologists is correct.

And in those days the springtime was as joyful as it is now, and sent the blood coursing in just the same fashion.

...