Bedtime Tale: The Water Babies Ch 7/Part 1

Enjoy this bedtime tale to help you drift off into a peaceful slumber. Tonight we read Chapter 7/Part 1 of the classic, The Water Babies, by Charles Kingsley. This reading describes Tom's journey as he ventures out into the world. This audio is perfect for children or adults who want to relax, discover magic, or find adventure before a great night's sleep.

Transcript

The Water Babies by Charles Kingsley Chapter 7 Now,

Said Tom,

I am ready to be off,

If it's to the world's end.

Ah,

Said the fairy,

That is a brave good boy,

But you must go further than the world's end,

If you want to find Mr.

Grimes,

For he is at the other end of nowhere.

You must go to Shinywall,

And through the white gate that never was opened,

And then you will come to Peace Pool,

And Mother Carrie's Haven,

Where the good whales go when they die.

And there Mother Carrie will tell you the way To the other end of nowhere,

And there you will find Mr.

Grimes.

Oh dear,

Said Tom,

But I do not know my way to Shinywall,

Or where it is at all.

Little boys must take the trouble To find out things for themselves,

Or they will never grow to be men,

So that you must ask all the beasts in the sea,

And the birds in the air,

And if you have been good to them,

Some of them will tell you the way to Shinywall.

Well,

Said Tom,

It will be a long journey,

So I had better start at once.

Goodbye,

Miss Ellie.

You know,

I'm getting a big boy,

And I must go out and see the world.

I know you must,

Said Ellie,

But you will not forgive me,

Tom.

I shall wait here till you come.

And she took hands with him,

And bade him goodbye.

Tom longed very much to kiss her,

But he thought it would not be respectful,

Considering she was a lady born.

So he promised not to forget her,

But his little whirlabout of a head Was so full of the notion Of going out to see the world,

That it forgot her in five minutes.

However,

Though his head forgot her,

I am glad to say his heart did not.

So he asked all the beasts in the sea,

And all the birds in the air,

But none of them knew the way to Shinywall.

For why?

He was still too far down south.

Then he met a ship,

Far larger than he had ever seen,

A gallant ocean steamer,

With a long cloud of smoke trailing behind.

And he wondered how she went on without sails,

And swam up to see her.

A school of dolphins were racing round and round her,

Going three feet for her one,

And Tom asked them the way to the Shinywall,

But they did not know.

Then he tried to find out how she moved,

And at last he saw her screw,

And was so delighted with it That he played under her quarter all day,

Till he nearly had his nose knocked off by the fans,

And thought it time to move.

Then he watched the sailors upon deck,

And the ladies with their bonnets and parasols,

But none of them could see him,

Because their eyes were not opened,

As indeed most people's eyes are not.

At last there came out into the quarter gallery A very pretty lady,

In deep black widow's weeds,

And in her arms a baby.

She leaned over the quarter gallery,

And looked back,

And back toward England far away,

And as she looked she sang,

Soft,

Soft wind,

From out the sweet south sliding,

Waft thy silver cloud-webs Athwart the summer sea,

Thin,

Thin threads of mist on dewy fingers twining,

Weave a veil of dappled gauze To shade my babe and me.

Deep,

Deep love,

Within thine own abyss abiding,

Pour thyself abroad,

O Lord,

On earth and air and sea.

Worn,

Weary hearts,

Within thy holy temple hiding,

Shield from sorrow,

Sin and shame,

My helpless babe and me.

Her voice was so soft and low,

And the music of the air so sweet,

That Tom could have listened to it all day.

But as she held the baby over the gallery rail,

To show it the dolphins leaping,

And the water gurgling in the ship's wake,

Lo and behold,

The baby saw Tom.

He was quite sure of that,

For when their eyes met,

The baby smiled and held out his hands,

And Tom smiled and held out his hands too,

And the baby kicked and leaped,

As if it wanted to jump overboard to him.

What do you see,

My darling?

Said the lady,

And her eyes followed the baby's Till she too caught sight of Tom,

Swimming among the foam beads below.

She gave a little shriek and a start,

And then she said quite quietly,

Babies in the sea?

Well,

Perhaps it is the happiest place for them,

And waved her hand to Tom and cried,

Wait a little,

Darling,

Only a little,

And perhaps we shall go with you and be at rest.

And at that an old nurse,

All in black,

Came out and talked to her and drew her in,

And Tom turned away northward,

Sad and wondering,

And watched the great steamer slide away into the dusk,

And the lights on board peep out one by one,

And die out again,

And the long bar of smoke fade away into the evening mist,

Till all was out of sight.

And he swam northward again,

Day after day,

Till at last he met the King of the Herrings,

With a curry comb growing out of his nose,

And a sprat in his mouth for a cigar,

And asked him the way to Shiny Wall.

So he bolted his sprat head foremost and said,

If I were you,

Young gentlemen,

I should go to the All Alone Stone And ask the last of the Garefowl.

She is of a very ancient clan,

Very nearly as ancient as my own,

And knows a good deal which these modern upstarts don't,

As ladies of old houses are likely to do.

Tom asked his way to her,

And the King of the Herrings told him very kindly,

For he was a courteous old gentleman of the old school,

Though he was horribly ugly,

And strangely bedizzened too,

Like the old dandies who lounge in the clubhouse windows.

But just as Tom had thanked him and set off,

He called after him.

Hi,

I say,

Can you fly?

I've never tried,

Said Tom,

Why?

Because if you can,

I should advise you to say nothing to the old lady about it.

There,

Take a hint.

Goodbye.

And away Tom went for seven days and seven nights due northwest,

Till he came to a great cod bank,

The like of which he never saw before.

The great cod lay below in tens of thousands,

And gobbled shellfish all day long.

And the blue sharks roved about in hundreds,

And gobbled them when they came up.

So they ate,

And ate,

And ate each other,

As they had done since the making of the world,

And no man had come here yet to catch them And find out how rich old Mother Carrie is.

And there he saw the last of the garefowl,

Standing up on the all-alone stone,

All alone.

And a very grand old lady she was,

Full three feet high,

And bolt upright,

Like some old highland chieftains.

She had on a black velvet gown,

And a white pinner and apron,

And a very high bridge to her nose,

Which is a sure mark of high breeding,

And a large pair of white spectacles on it,

Which made her look rather odd,

Because it was the ancient fashion of the house.

And instead of wings,

She had two little feathery arms,

With which she fanned herself,

And complained of the dreadful heat.

And she kept on crooning an old song to herself,

Which she learnt when she was a little baby bird,

Long ago.

Two little birds they sat on a stone,

One swam away,

And then there was one,

With a foul,

Lull,

Lull lady.

The other swam after,

And then there was none,

And so the poor stone was left all alone,

With a foul,

Lull,

Lull lady.

It was flew away properly,

And not swam away,

But as she could not fly,

She had a right to alter it.

However,

It was a very fit song for her to sing,

Because she was a lady herself.

Tom came up to her very humbly,

And made his bow,

And the first thing she said was,

Have you wings?

Can you fly?

Oh dear,

No,

Ma'am,

I should not think of such thing,

Said cunning little Tom.

Then I shall have great pleasure in talking to you,

My dear.

It is quite refreshing nowadays to see anything without wings.

They must all have wings,

Every new upstart sort of bird and fly.

What can they want with flying,

And raising themselves above their proper station in life?

In the days of my ancestors,

No birds ever thought of having wings,

And did very well without them.

And now they all laugh at me,

Because I keep to the good old fashion.

That is why the very Merricks and Dovekeys have got wings,

The vulgar creatures,

And poor little ones enough they are,

And my own cousins too,

The Razorbills,

Who are gentle folk born,

And ought to know better than to ape their inferiors.

And so she was running on,

While Tom tried to get a word in edgewise,

And at last he did,

When the old lady got out of breath,

And began fanning herself again.

And then he asked if she knew the way to Shiny Wall.

Shiny Wall?

Who should know better than I?

We all came from Shiny Wall,

Thousands of years ago,

When it was decently cold,

And the climate was fit for gentle folk.

But now,

What with the heat,

And what with these vulgar winged things,

Who fly up and down and eat everything,

So that gentle people's hunting is all spoil.

And one really cannot get one's living,

Or hardly venture off the rock,

For fear of being flown against by some creature,

That would not have dared to come within a mile of one,

A thousand years ago.

What was I saying?

Why,

We have quite gone down in the world,

My dear,

And have nothing left but our honor.

And I am the last of my family.

A friend of mine and I came and settled on this rock,

When we were young,

To be out of the way of low people.

Once,

We were a great nation,

And spread all over the Northern Isles.

But men shot us so,

And knocked us on the head,

And took our eggs.

Why,

If you'll believe it,

They say that on the coast of Labrador,

The sailors used to lay a plank,

From the rock on board the thing called their ship,

And drive us along the plank by hundreds,

Till we tumbled down into the ship's waste in heaps.

And then I suppose they ate us,

The nasty fellows.

Well,

But what was I saying?

At last,

There were none of us left,

Except on the old Garefell Skerry,

Just off the Iceland coast,

Up which no man could climb.

Even there we had no peace,

For one day,

When I was quite a young girl,

The land rocked,

And the sea boiled,

And the sky grew dark,

And all the air was filled with smoke and dust,

And down tumbled the old Garefell Skerry Into the sea.

The Dove Keys and Merricks,

Of course,

All flew away,

But we were too proud to do that.

Some of us were dashed to pieces,

And some drowned,

And those who were left got away to Eldee.

And the Dove Keys tell me they're all dead now,

And that another Garefell Skerry Has risen out of the sea close to the old one,

But that it is such a poor,

Flat place That it is not safe to live on,

And so here I am left alone.

This was the Garefell story,

And strange as it may seem,

It is every word of it true.

If you only had had wings,

Said Tom,

Then you might all have flown away too.

Yes,

Young gentlemen,

And if people are not gentlemen and ladies,

They will find it as easy to get on in the world As other people who don't care what they do.

Why,

If I had not recollected,

I should not have been all alone now.

And the poor old lady sighed.

How was that,

Ma'am?

Well,

My dear,

A gentleman came hither with me,

And after we had been here some time,

He wanted to marry.

In fact,

He actually proposed to me.

Well,

I can't blame him.

I was young and very handsome then,

I don't deny.

But you see,

I could not hear of such a thing,

Because he was my deceased sister's husband,

You see.

Of course not,

Ma'am,

Said Tom,

Though of course he knew nothing about it.

She was very much diseased,

I suppose.

You do not understand me,

My dear.

I mean,

That being a lady,

And with right and honorable feelings,

As our house always has had,

I felt it was my duty to snub him,

And hawk him,

And peck him continually,

To keep him at a proper distance.

And,

To tell the truth,

I once pecked him a little too hard,

Poor fellow,

And he tumbled backwards off the rock.

And,

Really,

It was very unfortunate,

But it was not my fault.

A shark came by,

Saw him flapping,

And snapped him up.

And since then I have lived all alone With a fa-la-la lady.

And soon I shall be gone,

My little dear,

And nobody will miss me.

And then the poor stone will be left all alone.

But please,

Which is the way to shiny wall,

Said Tom.

Oh,

You must go,

My little dear,

You must go.

Let me see.

I am sure.

That is.

Really,

My poor old brains are getting quite puzzled.

Do you know,

My little dear,

I am afraid,

If you want to know,

You must ask some of those vulgar birds about it,

For I have quite forgotten.

And the poor old gare fell,

Began to cry tears of pure oil.

And Tom was quite sorry for her,

And for himself too,

For he was at his wit's end,

On whom to ask.

But by there came a flock of petrels,

Who are Mother Carrie's own chickens.

And Tom thought them much prettier than Lady Gare fell.

And so perhaps they were,

For Mother Carrie had had a great deal of fresh experience Between the time that she invented the gare fell And the time she had invented them.

They fitted along like a flock of black swallows,

And hopped and skipped from wave to wave,

Lifting up their little feet behind them so daintily,

And whistling to each other so tenderly,

That Tom fell in love with them at once,

And called them to know the way to Shiny Wall.

Shiny Wall,

Do you want Shiny Wall?

Then come with us,

And we will show you.

We are Mother Carrie's own chickens,

And she sends us out over all the seas,

To show the good birds the way home.

Tom was delighted,

And swam off to them,

After he had made his bow to the gare fell.

But she would not return his bow,

But held herself bolt upright,

And wept tears of oil as she sang.

And so the poor stone was left all alone,

With a foul la-la lady.

But she was wrong there,

For the stone was not left all alone,

And the next time that Tom goes by it,

He will see a sight worth seeing.

The old gare fell is gone already,

But there are better things come in her place,

And when Tom comes he will see the fishing smacks Anchored there in hundreds,

From Scotland,

And from Ireland,

And from the Orkneys,

And the Shetlands,

And from all the northern ports,

Full of the children of the old Norse Vikings,

The masters of the sea.

And the men will go hauling in the great cod by thousands,

Till their hands are sore from the lines,

And they will be making cod liver oil,

And guano,

And salting down the fish.

And there will be a man-of-war steamer there to protect them,

And a lighthouse to show them the way.

And you and I,

Perhaps,

Shall go some day to the all-alone stone,

To the great summer seafair,

And dredge strange creatures such as man never saw before.

And we shall hear the sailors boast That it is not the worst jewel in Queen Victoria's crown,

For there are eighty miles of cod bank,

And food for all the poor folk in the land.

That is what Tom will see,

And perhaps you and I shall see it too.

And then we shall not be sorry,

Because we cannot get a garefowl to stuff,

Much less find garefowl enough to drive them into stone pens And slaughter them,

As the old Norsemen did,

Or drive them on board,

Along a plank,

Till the ship was victualed with them all,

As the old English and French rovers used to do.

But we shall remember what Mr.

Tennyson says,

How the old order changeth,

Giving place to the new,

And God fulfills himself in many ways.

And now Tom was all agog to start for Shinywall,

But the Petrels said no,

They must go first to Allfowsness,

And wait there for the great gathering of all the seabirds,

Before they start for their summer breeding places Far away in Northern Isles.

And there they would be sure to find some birds,

Which were going to Shinywall.

But where Allfowsness was,

He must promise never to tell,

Lest men should go there and shoot the birds,

And stuff them,

And put them into stupid museums,

Instead of leaving them to play and breed,

And work in Mother Carrie's water garden,

Where they ought to be.

So where Allfowsness is,

Nobody must know,

And all that is to be said about it is,

That Tom waited there many days,

And as he waited,

He saw a very curious sight.

On the rabbit burrows on the shore,

There gathered hundreds and hundreds of hoodie crows,

Such as you see in Cambridgeshire.

And they made such a noise,

That Tom came on the shore,

And went up to see what was the matter.

And there he found them holding their great caucus,

Which they hold every year in the North,

And all their stump orators were speechifying,

And for a tribune,

The speaker stood on an old sheep's skull.

And they cawed and cawed,

And boasted of all the clever things they had done,

How many lambsides they had picked out,

How many red bullocks they had eaten,

And how many young grouse they had swallowed whole,

And how many grouse eggs they had flown away with,

Stuck on the point of their bills,

Which is the hoodie crow's particularly clever feat,

Of which he is proud as a gypsy,

As of doing the hawk-any-borrow,

And what that is,

I won't tell you.

And at last they brought out the prettiest,

Neatest young lady crow that ever was seen,

And set her in the middle,

And all began abusing and vilifying,

And raiding and bully-ragging at her,

Because she had stolen no grouse eggs,

And had actually dared to say that she would not steal any.

So she was to be tried publicly by their laws,

For the hoodies always try some offenders In their great yearly parliament.

And there she stood in the middle,

In her black gown and gray hood,

Looking as meek and as neat as a Quakeress,

And they all bawled at her at once.

And it was in vain that she pleaded,

That she did not like grouse eggs,

That she could not get her living very well without them,

That she was afraid to eat them,

For fear of the gamekeepers,

That she had not the heart to eat them,

Because the grouse were such pretty,

Kind,

Jolly birds,

And a dozen reasons more.

For all the others scowl-crows set upon her,

And pecked her to death there and then,

Before Tom could come to help her,

And then flew away,

Very proud of what they had done.

Now,

Was this not a scandalous transaction?

But they are true Republicans,

These hoodies,

Who do everyone just what he likes,

And make other people do so too,

So that for any freedom of speech,

Thought,

Or action,

Which is allowed among them,

They might as well be American citizens of the new school.

But the fairies took the good crow,

And gave her nine new sets of feathers running,

And turned her at last into the most beautiful bird of paradise,

With a green velvet suit and a long tail,

And sent her to eat fruit in the Spice Islands,

Where cloves and nutmegs grow.

And Miss Be Done By As You Did,

Settled her account with the wicked hoodies,

For as they flew away,

What should they find but a nasty dead dog,

On which they all set to work,

Pecking and gobbling and cawing,

And quarreling to their heart's content.

But the moment afterwards,

They all threw up their bills into the air,

And gave one screech,

And then turned head over heels backward,

And fell down dead,

One hundred and twenty-three of them at once.

For why?

The fairy had told the old gamekeeper in a dream,

To fill the dead dog full of strychnine,

And so he did.

And after a while,

The birds began to gather at Alfalsness,

In thousands and tens of thousands,

Blackening all the air.

Swans and Brantkees,

Harlequins and Eiders,

Heralds and Garganees,

Smoos and Guseners,

Divers and Loons,

Grebes and Dovekees,

Ox and Razorbills,

Gannets and Petrels,

Scows and Terns,

With gulls beyond all naming or numbering.

And they paddled and washed and splashed and combed,

And brushed themselves on the sand,

Till the shore was white with feathers.

And they quacked and clucked and gabbled,

And chattered and screamed and whooped,

As they talked over matters with their friends,

And settled where they would go,

And breed for the summer,

Till you might have heard them ten miles off.

And lucky it was for them that there was no one to hear them But the old keeper,

Who lived all alone upon the Ness,

In a turf hut thatched with heather,

And fringed round with great stones,

Slung across the roof by bent ropes,

Lest the winter gale should blow the hut right away.

But he never minded the birds,

Nor hurt them,

Because they were not in season.

Indeed,

He minded but two things in the whole world,

And those were his Bible and his grouse,

For he was as good an old Scotchman as ever Knit stockings on a winter's night.

Only when all the birds were going,

He toddled out and took off his cap to them,

And wished them a merry journey and a safe return,

And then gathered up all the feathers which they had left,

And cleaned them to sell down south,

And make feather beds for stuffy people to lie on.

Then the petrels asked the bird,

And that whether they could take Tom to Shinywall.

But one set was going to Sutherland,

And one to the Shetlands,

And one to Norway,

And one to Spitsbergen,

And one to Iceland,

And one to Greenland,

But none were going to Shinywall.

So the good-natured petrels said That they would show him part of the way themselves,

But they were only going as far as Jan Mayan's land,

And after that he must shift for himself.

And then all the birds rose up,

And streamed away in long black lines,

North and northeast and northwest,

Across the bright blue summer sky.

And their cry was like ten thousand packs of hounds,

And ten thousand peals of bells,

Only the puffins stayed behind,

And killed the young rabbits,

And laid their eggs in the rabbit burrows,

Which was rough practice,

Certainly,

But a man must see to his own family.

And as Tom and the petrels went northeastward,

It began to blow right hard,

For the old gentleman in the gray greatcoat,

Who looks after the big copper boiler In the Gulf of Mexico,

Had gotten behind with his work,

So Mother Carrie had sent an electric message to him For more steam.

And now the steam was coming,

As much in an hour as ought to have come in a week,

Puffing and roaring and swishing and swirling,

Till you could not see where the sky ended,

And the sea began.

But Tom and the petrels never cared,

For the gale was right abaft,

And away they went over the crest of the billows,

As merry as so many flying fish.

And at last they saw an ugly sight,

The black side of a great ship,

Waterlogged in the trough of the sea.

Her funnel and her mass were overboard,

And swayed and surged under her lee.

Her decks were swept as clean as a barn floor,

And there was no living soul on board.

The petrels flew up to her,

And wailed round her,

For they were indeed very sorry,

And also they expected to find salt pork.

And Tom scrambled on board of her And looked round,

Frightened and sad.

And there in a little cot,

Lashed tight under the bulwark,

Lay a baby fast asleep,

The very same baby Tom sawed at once,

Which he had seen in the singing lady's arms.

He went up to it and wanted to wake it,

But behold,

From under the cot,

Out jumped a little black and tan terrier dog,

And began barking and snapping at Tom,

And would not let him touch the cot.

Tom knew the dog's teeth could not hurt him,

But at least it could shove him away,

And did.

And he and the dog fought and struggled,

For he wanted to help the baby,

And did not want to throw the poor dog overboard.

But as they were struggling,

There came a tall green sea,

And walked in over the weather side of the ship,

And swept them all into the waves.

Oh,

The baby,

The baby!

Screamed Tom.

But the next moment he did not scream at all,

For he saw the cot settle down through the green water,

And the baby smiling in it,

Fast asleep.

And he saw the ferries come up from below,

And carry baby and cradle gently down in their soft arms.

And then he knew it was all right,

And that there would be a new water baby In St.

Brandon's Isle.

And that is the end of our story this evening.

Until next time,

Sweet dreams.