The Snowy Day Library

In this sleep story, you’re taking a peaceful wintry walk with your faithful dog when you discover the entrance to an extraordinary, otherworldly library. The books on the shelves have the power to transport you into their very stories. You hop in and out of the works of The Snow Queen, The Wind in the Willows, and Through the Looking-Glass.

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, The Dream by Ethan Sloan, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Slip into the pages of cozy,

Classic stories through the magic of an otherworldly library in tonight's relaxing bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel and I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

I'm here to help you fall asleep.

So at any time,

If you're ready to drift off,

Feel free to let go of the story.

You can always come back to finish it later.

Tonight's story features a built-in body scan for relaxation.

In tonight's story,

You're taking a peaceful wintry walk with your faithful dog.

While he chases rabbits through the drifts,

You follow him into a snowy tunnel,

Where,

To your surprise,

You discover the entrance to an extraordinary otherworldly library.

The books on the shelves have the power to transport you into their very stories.

You hop in and out of the works of Hans Christian Andersen,

Kenneth Graham,

And Lewis Carroll.

Finally,

Emerging from the magical library,

You and your companion return home to rest.

To rest.

I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields,

That it kisses them so gently,

And then it covers them up snug,

You know,

With a white quilt,

And perhaps it says,

Go to sleep,

Darlings,

Till the summer comes again.

Lewis Carroll Through the Looking Glass Snow kicks up in clouds like puffs of powdered sugar,

In scouts wake,

In all the humming tranquility of the wintry afternoon about you.

His energy is a wild disturbance,

A cyclone through an otherwise motionless ghost town.

You chuckle,

Watching your dog frolic through the driven snow,

Sparkling and soft.

He hasn't seen snow in some time,

And it's an overwhelming joy.

You haven't either,

Come to think of it.

Winters have become so mild where you live,

You've almost forgotten the feel of snow,

Collapsing and crunching beneath your boots.

There's something marvelously satisfying about it,

A quiet thrill,

To sinking a few inches with every step you take,

Then a gentle comfort,

In feeling the solid ground at the bottom,

Catching you.

Now Scout is rolling on his back,

His tongue hanging from the side of his mouth,

Which is split into a wide,

Goofy grin.

The fur on his belly is all white,

So he almost disappears into the snow,

Visible only by his zestful stirring.

Then he rolls once more onto his back,

And bounds toward you as if to say,

Look at all this.

Are you seeing this too?

Or to inquire how you can possibly resist the urge,

To dive into the snow yourself.

The snow only stopped falling a half hour or so ago.

Soon,

You and your neighbors will take to the sidewalks,

Shovels and salt in hand,

And start clearing the way.

But for now,

There's a sweet stillness to be savored.

The sky is still all white,

Almost indistinguishable from the horizon line.

And you smile to think that you might,

In all the hazy whiteness around you,

Step right into the sky,

And keep walking till you reach the stars.

No one else is quite ready to come out of their homes yet,

Still cozy by the fire,

You suppose,

In their thick socks with their hot cocos.

The snow is too powdery yet for snowball fights and snowmen in the morning.

It'll be wet and sticky enough for all that.

For now,

You've got this winter wonderland.

You've got this winter wonderland all to yourself,

You and Scout.

And it is wonderful,

You decide.

Though the air is cold and your breath dances in spirals before you,

And your nose is quite frozen,

You feel a spark of kindled warmth from within.

You reach down to scratch behind Scout's ears.

The black and white border collie grins and pants by your side.

The initial shock and wonder of the snow gives way to pure contentment.

He walks by your side,

At your pace,

For a time.

It doesn't last long,

This covenant of companionship.

Him just at your feet,

Tail wagging in the knee-high drifts.

No,

There are rabbits running through the snow now.

Rabbits that must be chased.

You're relieved to see that the little grey bunnies are too fast for your dog,

But he's all the more invigorated by their cunning and speed.

You're nearing the end of your street,

Where a footbridge crosses over a tiny stream,

Now frozen solid,

And into a small,

Charming park.

It all sits much lower than the street,

As if a giant's hand had descended to scoop out a chunk of the earth here,

Then made that place fertile and perfect for slow strolls and contemplation.

There's a large hill for sledding.

You're sure by this time tomorrow it will be crawling with excited children on trashcan lids and cardboard boxes.

And there are several neatly pruned,

Exceedingly tall juniper trees,

Planted at precise intervals along the snow-obscured path to give the illusion of spontaneity.

Their silvery-blue foliage whips toward the sky,

Dusted with snow.

You and Scout come here often for walks.

It's funny to see how starkly it transforms through the seasons.

The woodsy,

Fresh,

Herbaceous scent of the juniper slices through the cold air,

Awakening your senses.

You follow Scout into the hollow.

He's still chasing the trails left by the rabbits in the snow.

They're so small and light.

They balance on the top layer of the frost,

Not sinking into it like you and Scout.

Watching them run from him is like watching skipping stones skim the surface of a lake.

There's an ancient willow tree in the park,

At the very lowest point of the hollow.

The green,

All stripped from its weeping branches,

It looks haunting,

Skeletal even.

The narrow tendrils,

Bending toward the earth,

Are,

You observe as you move closer to it,

Frozen stiff,

All coated with ice and fasted in place.

Even a strong wind might not set it to subtle movement.

These woody icicles.

Scout's rabbits seem to have escaped for good.

There's no sign of them now,

Save the faint tracks they leave in the snow.

He turns to you,

Tail wagging and eyes sparkling.

You pat him on the head.

You and Scout continue your walk through the park,

Contented and close.

It's so still,

So peaceful and perfectly still,

As though the very hands of time have frozen solid,

Letting all things pause.

The earth feels to you like the moment before a deep exhale,

As though the whole world's breath has been drawn up inside,

Creating a hidden warmth and mustering a great potential energy,

And is now preparing to let it all go.

The afternoon is growing long,

And the midwinter sun,

Imperceptible though it may be behind the curtain of snow clouds,

Must be waning toward the horizon.

A faint purple is visible past the pall of clouds,

And a stronger,

Concentrated magenta is radiating over the crest of the hill.

You should probably be getting back.

You think.

It would be nice to take off these snowy boots and make some tea,

Maybe read a little of your book,

And turn in early for bed.

The holidays have worn you out,

And you're in need of some rest and recharging.

A hibernation,

You think,

With a smile.

Scout has strayed a few feet from you,

And you whistle to him to turn around and head back up toward the street.

His ears perk up when he hears your call,

But he does not turn to look at you.

Something else has his attention.

Your eyes scan the ground for the source of his focus,

And you just catch a glimpse of a tiny brown blur before it scampers off.

Another rabbit has come out of its hole to torment the poor dog.

Then Scout is off like a flash,

Running after the creature.

You follow behind,

But you don't feel the urgency to move all that fast.

You trudge through the snow,

Your boots still sinking several inches with each step.

You round the trunk of one of the juniper trees,

Following Scout's tracks,

Just in time to see his bushy white tail disappear into what looks like a solid snowdrift,

Nearly seven feet high.

You stop in place,

Bemused.

Half expecting to see him stumble back out,

Covered in snow like a cartoon creature.

But he doesn't emerge right away,

So you follow the path,

There where his tracks end,

Is the mouth of a narrow tunnel,

Not so much larger than a rabbit hole you suppose,

But large enough indeed for a medium-sized dog to have tumbled in.

With plenty of room,

You stop before him.

You stop before it,

Unsure of what to do.

You find yourself turning around in a circle,

Looking to see if anyone's around,

But what difference would that make?

You whistle,

Cutting through the still silence in the park.

You call Scout's name,

But there's no answer.

No patting of paws,

No bark of acknowledgement,

No yelp of distress either.

You crouch down,

Peering into the tunnel.

Maybe you can see how far Scout's gone,

Perhaps reach in after him,

But looking inside,

It's clear that he's gone farther than you can reach.

The tunnel seems to extend straight ahead,

Rather than down into the ground like a rabbit hole.

It's more like a man-made creation,

Really.

You recall the long snow days of your childhood,

Playing with the neighborhood kids,

Sledding,

Building snowmen,

Building igloos,

And snow caves.

Those caves you think were not so dissimilar to this.

Perhaps somehow in the short time between the snowfall and this solitary stillness,

Someone from the neighborhood was out here,

Building tunnels,

Making mischief.

After a few more fruitless whistles and shouts,

You take a deep breath.

There's nothing else to be done,

You think,

But to go in after him.

Surely Scout can't have gotten far,

And how far can the tunnel even go?

So,

You get down on your hands and knees,

Grateful for grabbing your thickest gloves and layering your clothing.

There turns out to be more than enough room for you to comfortably crawl through the tunnel.

You call Scout's name as you go,

And your voice bounces off the snowy walls,

Echoing back to you.

The tunnel is longer than you would have expected.

Before you know it,

You've been crawling for probably 20,

30 feet or more.

Still,

You whistle for Scout every few seconds,

Awaiting a response,

Or even the sound of scurrying feet ahead.

You hope he's not too frightened.

And the further you go,

The less light there is.

You turn on the flashlight on your phone,

And place it carefully in the breast pocket of your coat.

The beam of light bobs with you as you crawl.

Then,

A few feet later,

You see something unexpected.

It's faint,

But you're sure you haven't imagined it.

There's a glimmer of silvery blue light,

Just a sliver of it,

As though it's escaping from beneath the crack of a door.

You crawl forward a little more eagerly now.

A sparkle of déjà vu is settling over you.

Haven't you seen such a light before?

With that spectral blue-white glow,

Moving slowly like sunlight through salt water.

Yes,

You have.

It seems so long ago now.

Before you and Scout found each other,

And life before Scout feels like a distant dream.

It was a rainy day.

A deluge,

Really.

A downpour so heavy it knocked out the power all down the street.

On that rainy day,

Consumed by boredom,

You followed the same blue light through a closet door.

But the door didn't lead to your musty old closet.

You haven't thought about it in such a long time.

You thought it must have been a dream,

Born of an overactive imagination,

Starved for stimulation.

But now it comes back to you clear as day.

On that rainy day,

Your closet door led to an extraordinary place.

A library that could not be believed.

One with magic between the pages of its books.

Now you approach the source of the blue light.

You can see it shifting,

Rolling against the tunnel's snowy floor.

You turn off your phone's flashlight.

So the sliver of light is the only thing you can see.

You reach out into the near darkness,

And your hand meets a surface smooth and springy.

You push forward gently,

Feeling only light resistance against your hand.

Slowly the light expands as a door,

Something like a door but not quite a door,

Opens.

You feel a sensation like water or wind rushing over you,

Then dissipating.

Beyond the opening,

The light is such a change from the dim tunnel that you must shield your eyes.

You climb carefully through,

Feeling for solid ground,

With your feet,

And land with a slight drop on a smooth floor.

You can't help but gasp.

A library indeed,

But not quite the one you remember.

Vast and cavernous,

With ceilings so high they seem to disappear into a snow-cloud sky,

Though you can make out the vaults and arches above.

Made of glass,

Or crystal.

The whole chamber,

It seems,

Is made of that substance.

The bookshelves,

Which stretch near to the ceiling,

Are clear as crystal,

Lined with books of all sizes and colors.

Against the shelves,

What look like snowdrifts are piled,

Pure and white and sparkling in the light of countless candles,

Which flicker in lamps,

Lining the hall.

The floor under your feet,

Too,

Is quite translucent,

Yet wholly solid.

If you squint,

You can almost see something through the floor beneath.

There's movement,

Shifting light and shadows,

But nothing coherent.

Here and there are little nooks between the stacks,

Each piled high with cushions and blankets.

Or nestled with cozy armchairs and quilts.

And at the very heart of the library,

Hanging from the nearly invisible ceiling is the thing that draws your eye and overwhelms you with awe.

It's a chandelier.

But unlike any chandelier you've ever seen,

It seems to drip,

To weep,

From the ceiling,

Like the delicate wisps of a willow tree.

Organic and irregular in shape,

Still and sparkling like a million diamond facets,

Casting the colors of the rainbow in shining shimmers across the room.

You remove your gloves and run a hand along one of the glassy bookshelves.

Instantly,

You feel the sharp tingle of cold against your fingers.

It's all made,

Not made.

It's all made,

Not of glass or sparkling crystal,

But of ice.

The chandelier,

The shelves,

The floor,

All ice.

And yet,

Though your breath is visible in clouds upon the air,

The temperature in the library is pleasantly mild.

Some magic must be at work to keep the ice and snow from melting,

Even as candles burn within the chamber.

You turn to look behind you,

Back the way you came,

At the small window-like opening through which you crawled.

Swinging it closed,

You realize that the portal is covered with a framed painting,

And you recognize the artwork.

It's a painting you've always admired.

Hunters in the Snow by Peter Bruegel the Elder.

It's a wintry scene depicting a snow-blanketed hillside overlooking a village where people skate on a frozen lake.

Mountains in the background are craggy and snow-capped.

In the foreground,

A pair of hunters return from the wood,

Followed by a gaggle of weary dogs.

A magpie floats overhead.

As you're admiring the detail in the painting up close and wondering how it can be here when you know very well it belongs in a museum in Vienna,

Though you suppose that's hardly the most fantastical thing in this place,

You hear the distinct tapping of claws.

On the icy floor,

You spin round and breathe a huge sigh of relief,

Seeing Scout patting toward you,

A smile across his face as he skids on the ice.

You crouch down and rub his sides,

Letting him nuzzle your face.

Now that he's here,

You can relax.

He seems perfectly at home here,

And he stays close to your side as you begin to wander the stacks.

The faintly frosted ice shelves and furnishings reflect you and Scout vaguely,

Like a mirror underwater.

Here and there,

You find little follies,

Tabletop ice sculptures of scenes from well-known stories,

Like Don Quixote tilting at windmills,

Or the impish Peter Pan holding the fairy Tinkerbell in the palm of his hand.

There's a great,

Long table fit for a banquet,

But laden with books,

And scrolls of paper,

At its middle is a glorious centerpiece,

A stunning arrangement of anemone,

Eucalyptus,

And protea.

Encased within a block of ice,

You look to the spines of the books on a nearby shelf.

Gold thread shines against dark binding.

Some careworn,

Some like new,

These here are collections of fairy tales.

You find stories by the Brothers Grimm,

Charles Perrault,

Gabrielle Suzanne de Villeneuve,

And Hans Christian Andersen.

Your hand gravitates toward one of the Andersen collections,

And you gingerly pull the book down.

It slides from between its fellows smoothly.

The book crackles slightly as you lift the cover,

Revealing a black and white engraving on the inside page.

It's a lovely little illustration of a charming wood.

At the center is a tiny evergreen tree,

Over which a sprightly hare is mid-leap,

Looking to scout,

Almost for approval.

You make your way to a cozy-looking nook,

Underneath an icy arch.

There's an oversized,

Overstuffed,

Barrel chair in the corner,

Draped with a chunky knit blanket.

The recess is lit softly by a flickering lamp,

Glowing almost golden in its throw.

The chair is large enough for you and Scout,

Both to snuggle up comfortably.

You pull off your boots and put your feet up,

Drawing the blanket over your knees.

Scout curls up against your feet.

You appreciate his natural warmth against you.

You crack the book of fairy tales open once more,

And flip past the table of contents to the first story contained within.

You feel a shiver of excitement and anticipation when you read the title,

The Snow Queen.

And then there's the familiar tugging sensation,

The whoosh,

The whirl.

Now,

Suddenly,

You're being swept by the wind,

Swept along an icy tunnel,

One that sparkles with a thousand pinprick stars.

Snowflakes swirling all around you.

Head over heels,

You tumble until at last,

You find your feet again,

Though the movement doesn't stop when you land.

You've fallen right into the world of the story,

The domain of the Snow Queen,

Right into her splendid white sleigh.

You're dashing across the countryside in a pink and purple twilight.

The sleigh is drawn by three white horses who gallop with such swiftness and grace their hooves seem not to touch the ground.

The fresh scent of pine awakens your senses,

And the cold nips at your fingers.

And now you look to the driver of the sleigh,

The slender figure sitting just beside you.

At first,

You can only regard her from the corner of your eye.

So dazzling is she.

It's as though she shines bright as the sun,

Or the sun pure white.

But slowly,

Little by little,

You can take in her resplendent appearance.

Her skin is pure white,

Whiter than the horses pulling the sleigh.

Paler even than the snow on the ground.

Her hair,

White and glistening like pearls,

Whips behind her on the wind from beneath a white fur cap.

A white fur robe rests upon her shoulders,

And underneath a silk gown,

Also in the purest white.

Well,

No,

You think.

It isn't fur or silk at all.

It's snow.

Snow spun into thread and cloth,

The only material fit for such an icy,

Opulent queen.

She is of surpassing beauty.

Her features fine and elegant.

She carries herself with the grace and vigor of a swan,

Gripping the reins of the three pure white horses.

When she inclines her head ever so slightly to look at you,

You feel your face flush,

And hastily you turn away.

It's almost too much to make eye contact with her.

She seems to you like a snowstorm come to life,

With all the delicate grace of the snowflake on the wind and all the gusty,

Unfathomable power of a force of nature.

On you go across the land,

Watching the evening dim to a deep blue night.

A dizzying array of stars blink to life overhead,

And a full moon lends its sparkling opalescence to the fields of snow,

The horses,

The carriage,

And its impressive driver.

On she drives deep into increasingly remote country,

Evergreen forests and snow-topped mountains in the distance,

A slow-moving herd of reindeer in the snow.

You feel weightless,

Gliding,

Skimming over the snow.

You feel like at any moment the horses could kick off the ground and prance right up into the sky.

As the night gathers its darkness,

You look to the sky and behold wonder.

There,

In the star-speckled blackness,

A ribbon of luminescence,

Sheer and shifting,

Bluish-green and becoming more alive with each passing moment,

The aurora borealis,

The dazzling,

Dancing lights of the north.

Now an edge of vibrant pink twists through the spirals of light.

You're struck with awe,

Captivated by the display,

One you never thought you'd observe firsthand,

So captivated that it takes you a moment to realize the sleigh's driver,

The snow queen,

Is speaking to you.

Her voice is cold but comforting,

Like a layer of frost.

Upon a candlelit window,

We've traveled fast,

She says,

You must be freezing.

Until now,

You had hardly noticed.

So wonder-struck were you by the landscape and lights.

But yes,

You find you're shivering,

Unprepared for such arctic temperatures.

You nod,

Trembling.

The snow queen smiles a warm,

Tender-hearted smile,

Like sunlight melting snow.

As the horses glide still across the snow,

The lady bows to kiss you on the forehead.

Where her lips land,

You feel an icy,

Cool sensation,

Which travels down over your entire body,

Into your veins,

And deep into your heart.

For a moment,

You feel as though you've turned to ice,

Frozen solid.

But then the sensation releases,

And you're left feeling almost nothing at all,

Numb to the cold.

And protected from it,

We're almost home,

The snow queen says,

Gesturing to something straight ahead.

Upon the horizon,

As you squint to see it,

The horse-drawn sleigh barrels ever closer.

There,

Taking shape before you,

Is a magnificent palace,

Seven-spired,

And grand as Versailles,

Huge and sprawling and clinging to the side of a craggy cliff,

And entirely made of ice.

Its glorious towers and eaves and verandas,

All ice,

Sparkle,

And pick up the colors of the dancing aurora,

Reflecting and refracting them in perfect prisms.

With an ache of curiosity,

You regard the ice palace.

But there's a twinge,

Too,

Of longing for home,

A shadow of disquiet about this place,

This snow queen.

You look back at the way from which you came.

All is snow and silky darkness.

Under the northern lights,

You feel homesick,

Says the snow queen,

Cutting through your thoughts to the truth.

You feel yourself nodding,

Numbly,

Would you like to forget your other life,

To live unburdened by unhappy memories,

To live in my palace,

And eat and drink whatever you like,

And have everything your heart desires.

You turn to face the snow queen,

Flinching slightly at the intensity of her beauty and her expression.

There is something irresistible about her offer.

You feel yourself,

Too,

Bending toward it,

Like the wisps of a willow tree on the wind.

You know that if she gives you one more kiss on the forehead,

You'll forget everything.

But what's right in front of you,

You want to give in.

But then you think of Scout,

Curled up at your feet,

Back in the library.

You think of the house on the corner,

Of friends and family.

As the snow queen stoops to kiss you once more,

You screw up your eyes tight,

Willing the image of the ice palace out of your head and wishing yourself back in the barrel chair with the blanket.

Whoosh,

Whirl,

Snowflakes sprinkling your skin and melting against your body heat,

A feeling of warmth at your feet,

The heaving of Scout's breath.

You open your eyes,

You're back in the library.

Scout is snoozing softly.

He doesn't seem to have noticed your absence at all.

You close the book on your lap,

Laughing,

And run a hand across its textured cover.

You never thought,

When you set out for a walk today,

That within the hour,

You'd find yourself sledding across Lapland under the Aurora Borealis.

And what other adventures might you have by stepping into the pages of these wonderful books?

You could visit King Arthur's court,

You suppose,

Or gather around the fireplace with the March sisters.

You emerge from your reading nook to seek out another volume.

The shelves,

Of course,

Are not organized according to any recognizable library system.

But seem to unfold with their own surreal logic,

Responding to your unspoken wishes.

You find yourself perusing a shelf of books that have nothing else discernible in common,

But that each features a character who attends boarding school.

Another shelf contains books that all take place in your hometown,

Books that are best read in the summer.

When the days are long and you can sit outside,

Books about amateur detectives,

Books inspired by ancient mythology,

Books that describe food and feasts with such sumptuous specificity that your mouth waters as you read.

You stumble upon a small round table carved of ice,

Laden with books flickering tapers shine in an ice candelabra casting a warm glow across the covers of the books.

Your eyes fall on a mahogany volume,

Gilt-edged and worn.

On the cover,

Stamped in gold,

Is the encircled silhouette of a queen crowned and holding a scepter.

Your lips curl into a smile,

As you slip the volume into your hands,

Tuck it under your arm,

And carry it back to your reading nook.

Settling into the chair once more,

Scout sleeping soundly at your feet,

You crack open through the looking glass by Lewis Carroll.

Though you're not sure why,

This sequel to Alice's Adventures in Wonderland always makes you wonder.

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland always struck more of a chord with you than its predecessor,

Perhaps because it takes as its central structural device the game of chess,

Which intrigues you so,

Or perhaps because the idea of stepping through a mirror into another reality was always more appealing to you than tumbling headfirst down a rabbit hole,

In any case.

As the book falls open on your lap,

You find yourself tumbling indeed,

A whoosh and a whirl and you're off,

Spinning down a narrow tunnel toward a blinding light.

Your head feels pleasantly light and you think you can hear,

Faintly,

The ticking of a clock from somewhere not too far off.

You land with a bounce and a bluster on a thick cushioned armchair,

Catching your breath.

The ticking sound is louder,

Present and coming,

You discover,

From the antique clock on the mantelpiece.

Behind it,

Above the fireplace,

Is a huge looking glass in which you can now see your reflection.

It's your reflection,

Surely,

But you're younger.

Childlike,

Somehow,

And dressed in 19th century children's clothes.

It's rather amusing,

Really.

You take in your surroundings,

An ornate Victorian drawing room.

There are upholstered chairs with golden tassels,

Side tables displaying botanicals in bell jars,

And before you,

A chess set with the most exquisitely carved pieces.

The whole chamber is dimly lit,

Warm and cozy with its maximalist appointment.

You glance outside the window to see heavy snowflakes falling in clumps through the darkness,

Accumulating on the windowsill.

Feeling a funny sensation at your feet,

You look down to notice two kittens pawing at your shoes.

One kitten,

Fluffy and white as a snowball,

And the other sleek,

Svelte and black with golden eyes.

You feel your heart melt with tenderness toward them.

They're so tiny,

You can scoop one up in each hand.

They mew and squirm as you hold them to eye level.

Snowdrop,

You call the white one,

Remembering how Alice named it in the book,

And Kitty to the black one,

Though you wish Alice had been more cute.

Alice had been more creative in naming this one.

You set them back at your feet where they play at wrestling and pawing still at your shoes.

You ponder the position of the chess pieces on the table beside you,

Inspect the dried daisies and dahlias under bell jar glass,

And even sneak a bite of a biscuit laid from a china plate.

Then,

Though you're enjoying the simple pleasures of the study,

Your gaze drifts to the ornamental mirror on the mantle.

It can't be avoided,

Nor can it be resisted.

What might the world look like,

You wonder.

On the other side of the looking glass,

You see the room reflected in reverse in the surface of the glass.

Though it's a perfect copy,

You can sense that something special lies beyond the two tiny kittens.

Look on with curiosity as you pull up your stockings and climb carefully onto the mantle.

It's quite the tricky balancing act,

You find.

With a deep breath and a final glance back at the room,

The chessboard,

The kittens.

You place a hand delicately on the surface of the mirror.

Instead of cold,

Hard glass,

The surface is like springy liquid offering only the mildest resistance as you push your hand through.

Now your whole arm and your other arm,

And now there's nothing else to do but lean all the way forward,

All the way in,

And through the looking glass.

With a strange,

Tingling sensation,

You step through the other side of the mirror.

You stand again upon the mantle,

But you face the alternate direction and indeed opening your eyes.

The room looks quite the same as before,

Just,

Well,

It's uncanny somehow.

Reversed,

But also distorted,

As though seen through the filter of a dream.

Nothing out of place,

And yet nothing where it should be.

You think of that painting,

The Persistence of Memory by Dali,

And you half expect to see the mantle clock melting into the fireplace,

But it's subtler than that,

Much subtler.

You step down cautiously off the mantle piece and inspect the details of the looking glass room,

Though it gave off such a surreal impression you find on closer investigation.

No discernible defects,

Nothing off at all,

Despite the feeling of disorientation.

It's as though your very gaze and attention put things to right underneath your nose,

Like mischief or madness is carrying on just in the corners of your eyes,

But when you turn to observe the commotion,

It vanishes.

You pull a book from a shelf at eye level,

At eye level,

Not lost on you is the irony of opening a book when you yourself are within the pages of one.

Its pages,

However,

Are flooded with jumbled nonsense,

An arrangement of letters so absurd and illegible that you feel,

Once again,

As though you're walking through a dream,

But then a notion strikes you and you cross with the book to the fireplace.

You hold the nonsense page up to the looking glass where the letters,

Reversed and reflected,

Begin to make a certain sense.

Well,

Almost make sense.

Twas brillig,

And the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wave.

You read aloud,

Already slouching into the lilting rhythm of the poem.

All mimsy were the borrow groves and the momraths outgrabe.

Despite the words being themselves gibberish and the tone being somewhat ominous,

The poem is so instantly familiar that it warms you to your core.

After reading it through in the reflection,

You set the book down and continue exploring the looking glass room.

You look to the chess table where the pieces are already placed as though mid-game.

You struggle to remember if it's the same formation as on the other side of the mirror.

You pick up one of the white pieces,

The knight,

And admire its intricate carvings.

Then,

To your surprise,

The piece begins to move,

Wriggling as though trying to get free of your grasp.

You're so surprised you almost drop the piece to the floor,

But instead you carefully set it back on the board in the square you think it was placed on before.

You must have guessed wrong,

However,

For as you crouch to the level of the table to look closely at the other pieces,

You find they're all in an uproar.

Every single piece has come to life,

And mass confusion has been caused by your error in placement.

It seems you made such a move as to thwart one side's imminent checkmate,

And you've thrown the gambit into chaos.

This seems like as good a time as any other to return to the library.

Though you're curious what lies outside the looking glass house,

If your knowledge of chess is any indication,

You won't fare too well in this world.

And besides,

You've had enough of queens blocking out the tiny squeaking shouts of the upset chess pieces.

You squeeze your eyes tight and visualize the library,

Wishing yourself back in the cozy reading nook.

There's the whoosh,

And the whirl,

And the collapsing cushions of the chair beneath you.

You're back,

Surrounded by books and icicles,

Nestled in the chair with your faithful dog.

Lazily,

You return to the shelves,

Itching for one last trip into the magical world of stories.

One more adventure,

Then surely it'll be time to go home.

As though the library has read your mind,

Anticipated your craving for a warm,

Cozy escape,

You stumble upon a shelf of books that all have one thing in common.

Each is centered around anthropomorphic animals.

Your gaze lingers on Watership Down,

Winnie the Pooh,

Even Redwall.

But then your heart flutters at the sight of a dark green binding.

Leaves of acanthus embellish the title along the spine.

You slide the book off the shelf to look at the cover.

There in embossed gold is the image of a satyr playing his pan flute,

Crouched in the reeds,

And overlooking two small animals,

A mole and a rat,

In a boat along a river.

Beneath the striking image,

The words,

The wind in the willows.

This book,

More than any of the others,

Has a smell to it,

Not just the smell of an old book,

Musty and chocolaty,

But a smell of childhood,

Of grass and earth,

Of savory stews,

Of spring breeze,

An indescribable concoction of nostalgia.

You carry the book back to your reading area.

As you sit down,

Scout stirs,

Smiling in his sleep.

You pat his head gently,

And you open the book.

This time you savor the woosh and the whirl,

And the tumbling through the tunnel.

When you land,

You find your feet crunching on crisp snow.

You take in your surroundings.

It's certainly a wild and windy night,

With snow falling all around.

You're grateful to see,

When you look to your feet,

That you're wearing galoshes,

Which insulate you from the dampness of the snow.

It seems,

Though the snow falls so thickly,

It's hard to mark where you are,

That you're trudging through a dark,

Wild forest.

On such a night,

What were you thinking,

Leaving the safety of home?

The trees,

Silhouetted,

Are enormous,

Tall as skyscrapers,

Making you feel,

Oh,

Very small,

Indeed.

Still,

You continue on,

In the direction you are going.

Perhaps you're only steps away from a warm hearth,

But after many more minutes,

The snow swirling round and blurring your vision,

You begin to worry that you're lost in this wild wood.

Perhaps you think you should return to the library now,

And save an adventure like this for another day.

Just as you're about to screw up your eyes,

And wish yourself back to the reading nook,

You hear a faint sound behind you,

Something distinct from the swish of the wind,

Or the patter of snow.

It's the sound of little footsteps,

And a voice on the air.

The voice is calling your name,

Only it's not your name,

Is it?

It's the name of the character whose galoshes you've fallen into.

The voice is calling for Mole.

You turn round,

Seeking the owner of the voice,

And through the curtains of snow,

He emerges.

A slender water vole is stumbling toward you,

Wrapped in a scarf and coat.

At the sight of you,

He sighs with relief.

You feel it too,

A sense of warm,

Rushing affection for the creature,

And gratitude that he's here by your side.

The vole.

Ratty by name.

Can't believe you've gone and got yourself lost in the wild wood.

This kind of place is not fit for a river banker like you,

And should only be crossed in pairs.

Certainly never in weather like this,

You apologize sheepishly,

Explaining that you were only hoping to find the home of Mr.

Badger.

After everything you've heard about him,

At this,

Instead of marching you right back home,

Rat decides to accompany you through the wood.

A nice cup of tea with Badger might be just what the doctor ordered.

As you walk with your friend,

The snow begins to thin,

Then cease entirely,

And stars peek through the gaps in the trees,

Like diamonds hanging upon their branches.

Even with the cold,

It warms your heart to walk side by side with such a charming,

Kind companion.

The time passes fleetly with the lighthearted conversation.

At last you come to a snowbank so tall,

It's impossible to see over,

And so wide,

It's nearly impassable.

Rat seems stumped.

He's certain Mr.

Badger's residence is close by.

But however will you traverse such an obstacle,

Feeling your heart fall?

The two of you decide that with the hour growing ever later,

And your bones this weary,

You'll simply have to retire for the night,

And search again for Badger's home in the morning.

Rat volunteers to dig a nice hole for you to crawl into,

Where you'll be safe,

Wasting no time.

He begins to burrow deep into the snowdrift.

You're impressed with the speed and diligence of his work.

You yourself are so tired from the journey,

You can't contribute.

But as Ratty digs deeper and deeper into the snowbank,

You hear an unexpected sound.

The unexpected sound of Rat's paws meeting something hard and hollow.

Mole?

Come down here,

Will you?

Your friend calls.

Hastily you crawl down the tunnel of snow to meet him.

There at the end of the tunnel,

Ratty shifts aside to reveal a solid looking little door,

Painted dark green as the forest trees.

By its side hangs an iron bell pull,

And below it,

On a small brass plate,

Neatly engraved in square capital letters,

Are the words,

Mr.

Badger.

You find yourself laughing with glee.

Ratty has done it.

He's found the home of Mr.

Badger.

Rat looks to you expectantly,

Then gestures to the bell pull.

With only a moment's hesitation,

You reach for the pull and ring it.

You hear within,

The echoing low tone of the bell.

It's some time before there's any response,

But just as you're about to ring the bell again,

You can hear the shuffling of slippered feet beyond the door,

And low grunts.

Now,

Who is it?

Comes a gruff voice,

Disturbing me at this time of night,

Ringing my bell like it's midday.

You shrink,

But Ratty knocks pleasantly and calls inside,

Identifying himself.

Instantly,

The voice behind the door changes.

Ratty,

My good fellow,

The voice calls.

Why didn't you say so?

The sound of a bolt snatch sliding,

And the creak of the door swinging wide open.

In the doorway stands a stately fellow indeed,

With downy fur of black and white,

Beady black eyes and a long snout,

Robed for bed and feet beslippered.

A candlestick in one paw,

It's Mr.

Badger indeed.

Abandoning all the annoyance of before,

He jovially beckons you in,

Embracing Ratty and shaking your paw enthusiastically.

He ushers you all the way inside and toward the hearth,

Where he'll light a fire and you can rest and warm up from the cold.

Have you had supper?

He'll make supper too.

You're welcome to it.

Mr.

Badger's home seems the pure opposite of the wide,

Wild forest,

Warm and dry,

Snug and enclosed,

With a central chamber from which many tunnels and passages lead off into mysterious darkness.

Badger brings you warm dressing gowns,

Slippers and blankets.

You savor the feeling of pulling on dry socks,

Toasting your feet beside the roaring fire.

Everywhere from the rafters hang bundles of dried herbs,

Nets of onions and strung hams.

With the smoke from the fire,

The room smells like a harvest feast,

Savory and spicy.

It seems a place where heroes could fiddly feast after victory,

Where weary harvesters could line up in scores along the table and keep their harvest home with mirth and song.

Or where two or three friends of simple tastes could sit about as they pleased and eat and smoke and talk in comfort and contentment.

You sink into your chair as Badger busily sets the table,

And as Rat regales him with an exaggerated version of your wandering through the wild wood,

Badger's hospitality and general pleasantries leave you with a sense of effusive pleasure.

You feel so cozy,

So cared for and so content among these fellows that your heart seems to overflow with feeling.

Once you're sufficiently warmed by the fire,

Badger summons you to the table,

Where you share a supper fit for a celebratory feast.

The glow of the fire plays across the serving dishes and silverware,

And the faces of your friends,

Mouths so full as to halt the conversation,

You enjoy every morsel with a thankful heart.

Then,

Sated and sleepy,

The three of you return to the hearth to bask in the embers of the fire and converse about the goings-on in the world.

You talk of Mr.

Toad and his new obsession with motor cars,

Of the many mishaps he's had in this craze.

You're so captivated by Mr.

Badger's manner of speech that you hardly notice Ratty's nodded off several times.

You suppose it is very late,

You ought to be getting to bed,

But the fire is so nice,

And the company even more pleasant.

You focus on the sensation of radiant warmth from the fire,

The way it tickles your toes and prickles up your legs,

The feeling of toasty socks and soft slippers on your feet,

The crackling sound of the fire,

The way it reflects off the red brick floor and the smoky oaken ceiling,

The smell of herbs and onions.

You feel a sense of deep comfort,

Safety,

And relaxation from the tips of your toes to the top of your head,

From the top of your head to the tips of your toes.

Warmth in your heart,

Sweetness and softness in your body,

Limbs loosening,

Relaxing into the surface of the chair,

The feeling of safe anchorage,

Anchorage,

Coziness below ground,

The sturdiness of the chair in which you sit,

Holding and supporting you,

A tender sense of security.

You want to hold this moment,

The sights,

The sounds,

The smells,

The sensations,

Forever in your heart and return to it again and again.

You feel your eyelids growing heavy,

Coaxed to close by the heat of the fire.

You don't want to fall asleep just yet,

You want to savor this feeling for a little while longer.

But despite your trying to hold your eyes open,

Keep your mind just alert,

Eventually you surrender to the waves of sleepiness,

Working their spell upon you.

Your eyelids fall closed,

A gentle whoosh,

A subtle whirl.

You don't open your eyes just yet,

But you feel a shift in the temperature,

The atmosphere,

The heaviness of the blanket across your knees,

The feeling of the books binding against your fingers.

You're back in the library,

Scout is curled at your feet,

You rest here together for a little while longer,

Your body still tingling,

Holding and harmonizing with the feeling of pure security and intimacy you felt in Badger's underground home.

You let the feeling sink into your bones,

Soften into your memories,

Then at last,

Feeling that all things must sometime come to an end,

You scratch behind Scout's ears and pull yourself from the comfort of the reading nook.

Scout yawns and leaps off the chair,

Following you past the stacks,

Beneath the willowy chandelier and its ice crystals over the snowdrifts,

Weaving through the ice sculptures.

You approach the painting,

Hunter's in Snow,

And swing the frame wide,

Revealing the passage beyond.

Together with your faithful dog,

You crawl back through the tunnel,

Out into the snowy basin of the park,

Its dark out,

Stars blinking like gemstones against the velvet sky so peaceful.

Past the tendrils of the icy willow tree,

Then the snow-kissed foliage of the junipers,

Over the bridge,

Up the hill toward the street,

Off you go,

Together,

Through the night,

Toward home,

Pleasant dreams.

Reviews

I love magical library stories--this one included.

Thank you. Your soothing voice helped me get to sleep within the first 20 minutes.

I love all of your stories. The details, how magical they are, I’m addicted! 🙏🏻

I like snow ❄️

I enjoyed this story very much although I have never heard the whole thing, even though I have listened to it many times, because I fall asleep. I love this series! Thank you, Laurel!

I loved the creativity of this story! The reader had a very soothing voice

I just recently discovered “Sleep & Sorcery” and have to say I love it! Looking forward to listening to all of the stories!

I fell asleep so fast and I woke up and put it on again and I fell asleep so fast

Anything in the sleep and sorcery series is so wonderful. Laurel’s voice is incredibly soothing. It’s almost magical. Unfortunately, I never hear the whole story but I really love the series.

Thank you Laurel so much for this relaxing bedtime story! Every night I come home and listen to this, and every night I never hear the end of it! The story is beautifully written, and even better spoken! Thank you!

Pure magic! So much fun, and my dog’s name is Scout!🙏🏼🥰

All of her stories are wonderful. I have never yet gotten to the end, however, because I drop off to sleep way before the end.