Speaker 1: Hello, and welcome back to Sleepy Stories. I'm your host, Lucy,
and my friends and I will be reading you a
sleepy bedtime story every week to relax you and to
help you to drift off into a RESTful sleep. From
time to time, we will also read you a relaxing,
peaceful meditation that will take you somewhere beautiful and calming.
Once we have read the stories, we will then read
them a second time, but this time they will be
read read even slower. This will help you to relax
even more. Before we begin, I would like you to
close your eyes and breathe in and out nice and deeply.
Take a few seconds to inhale, and then hold your
breath for a few seconds more, and then release and
breathe out. Do this a few times if you need to.
While you listen to the music and you listen to
my voice, give yourself time to let your body relax
and your mind settle. It's important that we allow time
for us to feel safe, cozy, and completely at ease.
And now it's time for this week's story.
Speaker 2: The Quiet Catastrophe of Applewick Marsh, in a part of
the countryside where the fog arrived early stayed politely late,
and occasionally forgot why it had come at all. There
lay a stretch of gentle wetland known as Applewick Marsh.
It was not a dramatic marsh. There were no sudden whirlpools,
no shouting winds, and certainly no monster's worth mentioning in
respectable company. Instead, the marsh preferred to conduct its business slowly.
Water drifted through tall reeds with the quiet patience of
someone tidying a room one teacup at a time. Dragonflies
hovered thoughtfully in the air, like tiny inspectors of sunlight,
and every evening the frogs began their choir practice with
a careful seriousness of musicians who believed their performance might
be reviewed by the moon. Near the middle of this
calm and slightly soggy landscape stood a narrow wooden house
balanced on stilts above the shallow water. The house leaned
very slightly to the left, not dangerously, just enough that
visitors sometimes tilted their heads in sympathy. This house belonged
to mister Percival Dockery. Mister Dockery was a man of
advanced calmness and moderate mustache. He lived alone with a kettle,
a collection of extremely patient boots and a note book
in which he recorded the behavior of the marsh. Each morning,
he would step onto his little porch with a cup
of tea and write down important observations, such as duck
looked suspicious to day, or fog behaving thoughtfully. Mister Dockery
believed the marsh deserved careful study, not because it was dangerous,
but because it was the sort of place where small,
strange things happened so quietly that nobody noticed them until
several days later. On the morning our story begins, mister
Dockery woke at precisely seven o'clock and noticed something unusual. Immediately,
the marsh was silent. This was concerning Applewick. Marsh was
never completely silent, even on the sleepiest mornings. There were
always frogs clearing their throats, reeds rustling gently, or distant
birds arguing about extremely unimportant matters. But this morning there
was nothing. No croaking, no splashing, gentle whisper of wind
through the reeds. The entire marsh seemed to be holding
its breath. Mister Dockery stood on the porch and listened carefully. Hmm,
he said. Then he took a thoughtful sip of tea
very peculiar, he added. Just then something drifted slowly past
the house. It was a duck. Now, ducks drifting through
marshes are normally quite ordinary. However, this duck appeared to
be drifting backwards, not swimming backwards with purpose, simply gliding
backwards across the water, as if the marsh itself had
quietly reversed its opinion about direction. Mister lowered his teacup.
Good morning, he said, politely. The duck continued drifting backwards
without replying. Mister Dockery made a note in his notebook
duck reversing unexpectedly. The duck disappeared into the reeds. For
several long, quiet minutes, nothing else happened. Then the kettle
inside the house whistled. Mister Dockery went inside to remove
it from the stove. When he returned to the porch,
he noticed another strange detail. The fog was rising downward.
This is not normally how fog behaves. Fogg usually drifts
upward sideways, or occasionally in a thoughtful circle. But to
day it was lowering itself slowly from the sky toward
the marsh, as if gravity had politely requested a small adjustment.
Mister Dockery stared at it for a moment. Very unusual, indeed,
he murmured. He opened his note book again, fog descending
with unusual enthusiasm. As he finished writing, the front door
of the leaning house creaked open slightly behind him. Mister
Dockery turned. Standing in the doorway was Missus Lilian Crumb.
Missus Crumb lived in a small boat house on the
far side of the marsh and possessed the sharp observational
skills of someone who had spent forty years watching water behave. Strangely,
she held a lantern and looked mildly annoyed Dockery. She said, yes,
said mister Dockery. Have you noticed anything unusual this morning?
She asked. Mister Dockery nodded slowly. A few minor irregularities,
he replied. Missus Crumb crossed her arms. The marsh has
stopped flowing, she said. Mister Dockery blinked. That sounds inconvenient,
he said, extremely, said, Missus Crumb. Water is currently drifting
in several conflicting directions. Mister Dockery peered out across the marsh.
Now that she mentioned it, the water did seem rather undecided.
Some ripples moved north, others moved west. A few appeared
to be considering the philosophical advantages of staying exactly where
they were. Mister Dockery adjusted his spectacles. Yes, he said, calmly,
that does appear to be happening. Missus Crumb lowered her lantern.
And the frogs have resigned, she added, resigned, repeated mister Dockery.
They stopped singing, she said, packed up their lily pads,
and left twenty minutes ago. Mister Dockery frowned slightly. The
frogs of Applewick Marsh had sung every evening for decades
with remarkable dedication. If they had abandoned their choir duties,
something truly unusual must be unfolding. He closed his notebook slowly. Well,
he said, that sounds like the beginning of a catastrophe.
Missus Crumb nodded, Yes, she agreed, a very quiet one.
Just then, the reeds beside the house rustled softly. A
tall heron stepped out on to a patch of shallow
water and cleared its throat with dignified concern. Morning, said
the heron, Morning, said mister Dockery. Marsh behaving strangely. Again,
the heron observed, so it would seem, said mister Dockery.
The heron glanced around the silent water. Water is confused,
it said. Reeds are arguing with the wind, and something
appears to have misplaced the current. Mister Dockery rubbed his
chin thoughtfully. Misplacing an entire marsh current was certainly an
ambitious mistake. He had read about such things happening once
before in a very unreliable book about wandering rivers. Missus
Crumb looked toward the distant center of the marsh. That's
where it's wrong, she said, near the old Willow Island.
Mister Dockery followed her gaze. Through the lowering fog. He
could just see the dark outline of a large willow
tree standing alone in the water. The branches hung low
and still. The water around the island looked unusually calm,
too calm, like a clock that had quietly forgotten how
to tick. Mister Dockery straightened his coat well, he said,
if the marsh has misplaced its current, we should probably
go and look for it. Missus Crumb lifted her lantern.
The heron folded its wings, thoughtfully, and somewhere deep within
the silent fog of Applewick Marsh, the quiet catastrophe continued,
unfolding so politely that most of the world had not
yet noticed anything was wrong at all. Mister Dockery stood
for a moment on the porch, considering the situation with
the careful calm of a man who had once solved
a problem involving three wandering ducks and an extremely stubborn teapot.
Missus Crumb waited beside the steps with her lantern glowing
softly in the pale fog. The heron watched the water
with professional suspicion. Well, then, said mister Dockery, at last,
we should investigate. Missus Crumb nodded. I've brought the boat,
she said. Indeed she had tied to the side of
the house was a narrow, flat bottomed boat that looked
exactly like the sort of boat one would bring to
examine a quietly misbehaving marsh. Mister Dockery stepped down carefully
into it. The boat rocked once, then settled with the
polite sigh of a vessel that had accepted its responsibilities
for the day. Missus Crumb untied the rope. The heron
glided silently into the air and began flying low beside them.
They pushed away from the leaning house and drifted slowly
into the still water. For several moments, nobody spoke. The
fog hung low above the marsh, like a blanket that
had forgotten how beds worked. The reeds stood strangely upright.
Normally they whispered and swayed in the breeze, but to
day they appeared to be waiting for instructions that had
not yet arrived. Mister Dockery dipped an awe into the water.
The ripples spread outward very slowly. Too slowly. Hm, he murmured, what,
asked missus Crumb. The water is thinking, said mister Dockery.
That's not normal, said missus Crumb. No, agreed, mister Dockery.
Is less than has hone zero hash is greater than
water usually prefers doing. They continued gliding across the marsh.
Here and there small groups of frog sat on lily pads,
looking deeply uncertain about their careers. One frog raised a
hand politely as the boat passed. Morning, said the frog. Morning,
said mister Dockery. Quiere rehearsal canceled, said the frog sadly,
very wise, said missus Crumb. We're investigating a current related situation.
The frog nodded gravely. Best of luck, it said. We
tried croaking at the water, but it only looked confused.
The boat drifted onward. Soon the fog grew thicker. The
dark shape of Willow Island rose slowly from the mist
ahead of them. The old willow tree stood in the
center of the island, with its long branches trailing in
the water like thoughtful fingers. But something about the scene
was clearly wrong. The water around the island was perfectly still,
not gently moving, not slowly drifting, simply stopped, as though
the marsh had politely paused in the middle of a sentence.
Missus Crumb guided the boat closer. Look, she whispered. Mister
Dockery leaned forward. At the base of the willow tree.
Tangled among the long hanging branches, something round and wooden
bobbed quietly in the water. It was a large cork,
not a small cork like one might find in a bottle.
This cork was enormous, nearly the size of a barrel lid.
The heron landed nearby, and stared at it. Well, there's
your problem, said the heron. Mister Dockery blinked. The current
has been corked, he said, said slowly. Missus Crumb folded
her arms. That would explain several things, she replied. Mister
Dockery studied the cork carefully. It was wedged tightly between
the roots of the willow tree, where a narrow channel
normally allowed the marsh water to flow through the island.
With the cork blocking the passage, the entire marsh had
gradually slowed until it simply stopped. Mister Dockery opened his notebook.
Marsh currently corked, he wrote. Missus Crumb sighed. Any idea
how that got there, she asked. Mister Dockery adjusted his spectacles.
He examined the cork from several angles. Well, he said, thoughtfully,
it appears to have drifted down from somewhere upstream. The
heron tapped the cork gently with its beak. It did
not move, stubborn, said the heron. Missus Crumb leaned over
the side of the boat. We'll have to pull it out,
she said. Mister Dockery nodded quietly, though he added, no
need to startle the marsh. They climbed carefully on to
the muddy island. The willow branches swayed gently above them,
as if the tree had been waiting patiently for someone
to notice the problem. Mister Dockery grasped one side of
the cork. Missus Crumb took the other. The heron watched
with the serious expression of someone supervising a complicated teapot repair. Ready,
said Missus Crumb, Ready, said mister Dockery. They pulled, The
cork did not move. They pulled again. The cork shifted
slightly with a soft, wet sound. Progress, said mister Dockery.
They pulled one more time. With a quiet PLoP, the
enormous cork popped free from the channel. For a moment,
nothing happened. Then the marsh remembered how to flow. Water
rushed through the narrow channel beneath the willow roots. Ripples
spread outward across the still water. The reeds began whispering again.
The fog lifted slightly, as though relieved. In the distance.
The frog suddenly burst into enthusiastic singing, as if they
had been waiting impatiently backstage. Mister Dockery wiped his hands thoughtfully. Well,
he said, that seems to have resolved itself nicely. Missus
Crumb nodded. Very tidy, catastrophe, she agreed. The heron stretched
its wings. Good work, it said. The marsh continued waking
up around them them. Water drifted once more through the reeds.
Dragonflies resumed their quiet inspections of sunlight. Even the backwards
duck from earlier glided past again, this time facing the
correct direction. Mister Dockery made one final note in his notebook.
Catastrophe concluded politely, Missus Crumb pushed the boat back into
the water. They climbed aboard and began drifting home through
the now gently moving marsh. Behind them, Willow Islands stood
quietly beneath the fog, its long branches trailing peacefully in
the restored current, and across Applewick Marsh, the frog sang
with renew dued confidence, celebrating the successful resolution of a
catastrophe so quiet that the rest of the world would
likely never know it had happened at all. The quiet
catastrophe of Applewick Marsh in a part of the countryside
where the fog arrived early, stayed politely late, and occasionally
forgot why it had come at all. There lay a
stretch of gentle wetland known as Applewick Marsh. It was
not a dramatic marsh. There were no sudden whirlpools, no
shouting winds, and certainly no monster's worth mentioning in respectable company. Instead,
the marsh preferred to conduct its business slowly. Water drifted
through tall reeds with the quiet patience of someone tidying
a room one teacup at a time. Dragonflies hovered thoughtfully
in the air, like tiny inspectors of sunlight, and every
evening the frogs began their choir practice with a careful
seriousness of musicians who believed their performance might be reviewed
by the moon. Near the middle of this calm and
slightly soggy landscape stood a narrow wooden house balanced on
stilts above the shallow water. The house leaned very slightly
to the left, not dangerously, just enough that visitors sometimes
tilted their heads in sympathy. This house belonged to mister
Percival Dockery. Mister Dockery was a man of advanced calmness
and moderate mustache. He lived alone with a kettle, a
collection of extremely patient boots, and a notebook in which
he recorded the behavior of the marsh. Each morning, he
would step onto his little porch with a cup of
tea and write down important observations, such as duck looked
suspicious today, or fog behaving thoughtfully. Mister Dockery believed the
marsh deserved careful study, not because it was dangerous, but
because it was the sort of place where small, strange
things happened so quietly that nobody noticed them until several
days later. On the morning our story begins, mister Dockery
woke at precisely seven o'clock and noticed something unusual. Immediately,
the marsh was silent. This was concerning Applewick. Marsh was
never completely silent, even on the sleepiest mornings. There were
always frogs clearing their throats, reeds rustling gently, or distant
birds arguing about extremely unimportant matters. But this morning there
was nothing. No croaking, no splashing, no gentle whisper of
wind through the reeds. The entire marsh seemed to be
holding its breath. Mister Dockery stood on the porch and
listened carefully. Hmm, he said. Then he took a thoughtful
sip of tea, very peculiar, he added. Just then something
drifted slowly past the house. It was a duck. Now,
ducks drifting through marshes are normally quite ordinary. However, this
duck appeared to be drifting backwards, not swimming backwards with purpose,
simply gliding backwards across the water, as if the marsh
itself had quietly reversed its opinion about direction. Mister Dockery
lowered his teacup. Good morning, he said politely. The duck
continued drifting backwards without replying. Mister Dockery made a note
in his notebook, duck reversing unexpectedly. The duck disappeared into
the reeds. For several long, quiet minutes, nothing else happened.
Then the kettle inside the house whistled. Mister Dockery went
inside to remove it from the stove. When he returned
to the porch, he noticed another strange detail. The fog
was rising downward. This is not normally how fog behaves.
Fog usually drifts upward sideways, or occasionally in a thoughtful circle,
But today it was lowering itself slowly from the sky
toward the marsh, as if gravity had politely requested a
small adjustment. Mister Dockery stared at it for a moment.
Very unusual, indeed, he murmured. He opened his notebook again,
fog descending with unusual enthusiasm. As he finished writing, the
front door of the leaning house creaked open slightly behind him.
Mister Dockery turned. Standing in the doorway was Missus Lillian Crumb.
Missus Crumb lived in a small boat house on the
far side of the marsh and possessed the sharp observational
skills of someone who had spent forty years watching water
behave strain. She held a lantern and looked mildly annoyed Dockery.
She said, yes, said mister Dockery. Have you noticed anything
unusual this morning? She asked. Mister Dockery nodded slowly. A
few minor irregularities, he replied. Missus Crumb crossed her arms.
The marsh has stopped flowing, she said. Mister Dockery blinked.
That sounds inconvenient, he said, extremely, said Missus Crumb. Water
is currently drifting in several conflicting directions. Mister Dockery peered
out across the marsh. Now that she mentioned it, the
water did seem rather undecided. Some ripples moved north, others
moved west. A few appeared to be considering the philosophical
advantages of staying exactly where they were. Mister Dockery adjusted
his spectacles. Yes, he said, calmly, that does appear to
be happening. Missus Crumb lowered her lantern. And the frogs
have resigned, she added, resigned, repeated mister Dockery. They stopped singing,
she said, packed up their lily pads, and left twenty
minutes ago. Mister Rockery frowned slightly. The frogs of Applewick
Marsh had sung every evening for decades with remarkable dedication.
If they had abandoned their choir duties, something truly unusual
must be unfolding. He closed his notebook slowly. Well, he said,
that sounds like the beginning of a catastrophe. Missus Crumb nodded, Yes,
she agreed, a very quiet one. Just then, the reeds
beside the house rustled softly. A tall heron stepped out
onto a patch of shallow water and cleared its throat
with dignified concern. Morning, said the heron, Morning, said mister Dockery.
Marsh behaving strangely again, the heron observed, so it would seem,
said mister Dockery. The heron glanced around the silent water.
Water is confused, it said. Reeds are arguing with the wind,
and something appears to have misplaced the current. Mister Dockery
rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Misplacing an entire marsh current was
certainly an ambitious mistake. He had read about such things
happening once before in a very unreliable book about wandering rivers.
Missus Crumb looked toward the distant center of the marsh.
That's where it's wrong, she said, near the old Willow Island.
Mister Dockery followed her gaze. Through the lowering fog. He
could just see the dark outline of a large willow
tree standing alone in the water. The branches hung low
and still. The water around the island looked unusually calm,
too calm, like a clock that had quietly forgotten how
to tick. Mister Dockery straightened his coat well, he said,
if the marsh has misplaced its current, we should probably
go and look for it. Missus Crumb lifted her lantern.
The heron folded its wings thoughtfully, and somewhere deep within
the silent fog of Applewick Marsh. The quiet catastrophe continued,
unfolding so politely that most of the world had not
yet noticed anything was wrong at all. Mister Dockery stood
for a moment on the porch, considering the situation with
the careful calm of a man who had once solved
a problem involving three wandering ducks and an extremely stubborn teapot.
Missus Crumb waited beside the steps with her lantern glowing
softly in the pale fog. The heron watched the water
with professional suspicion. Well, then, said mister Dockery, at last,
we should investigate. Missus Crumb nodded. I've brought the boat,
she said. Indeed she had tied to the side of
the house was a narrow, flat bottomed boat that looked
exactly like the sort of boat one would bring to
examine a quietly misbehaving marsh. Mister Dockery stepped down carefully
into it. The boat rocked once, then settled with the
polite sigh of a vessel that had accepted its responsibilities
for the day. Missus Crumb untied the rope, the heron
glided silently into the air and began flying low beside them.
They pushed away from the leaning house and drifted slowly
into the still water. For several moments, nobody spoke. The
fog hung low above the marsh, like a blanket that
had forgotten how beds worked. The reeds stood strangely upright.
Normally they whispered and swayed in the breeze, but today
they appeared to be waiting for instructions that had not
yet arrived. Mister Dockery dipped an awe into the water.
The ripples spread outward very slowly. Too slowly. Hm, he murmured, what,
asked missus Crumb. The water is thinking, said mister Dockery.
That's not normal, said missus Crumb. No, agreed, mister Dockery.
Is less than has hone zero hash is greater than
water usually prefers doing. They continued gliding across the marsh.
Here and there, small groups of frog sat on lily pads,
looking deeply uncertain about their careers. One frog raised a
hand politely as the boat passed. Morning, said the frog. Morning,
said mister Dockery. Quir rehearsal canceled, said the frog. Sadly,
very wise, said missus Crumb. We're investigating a current related situation.
The frog not iod gravely. Best of luck, it said.
We tried croaking at the water, but it only looked confused.
The boat drifted onward. Soon the fog grew thicker. The
dark shape of Willow Island rose slowly from the mist
ahead of them. The old willow tree stood in the
center of the island, with its long branches trailing in
the water like thoughtful fingers. But something about the scene
was clearly wrong. The water around the island was perfectly still,
not gently moving, not slowly drifting, simply stopped, as though
the marsh had politely paused in the middle of a sentence.
Crumb guided the boat closer. Look, she whispered. Mister Dockery
leaned forward. At the base of the willow tree. Tangled
among the long hanging branches, something round and wooden bobbed
quietly in the water. It was a large cork, not
a small cork like one might find in a bottle.
This cork was enormous, nearly the size of a barrel lid.
The heron landed nearby and stared at it. Well, there's
your problem, said the heron. Mister Dockery blinked. The current
has been corked, he said slowly. Missus Crumb folded her arms.
That would explain several things, she replied. Mister Dockery studied
the cork carefully. It was wedged tightly between the roots
of the willow tree, where a narrow channel normally allowed
the marsh water to flow through the island. With the
cork blocking the passage, the entire marsh had gradually slowed
until it simply stopped. Mister Dockery opened his notebook. Marsh
currently corked, he wrote. Missus Crumb sighed. Any idea how
that got there? She asked. Mister Dockery adjusted his spectacles.
He examined the cork from several angles. Well, he said, thoughtfully,
it appears to have drifted down from somewhere upstream. The
heron tapped the cork gently with its beak. It did
not move, stubborn, said the heron. Missus Crumb leaned over
the side of the boat. We'll have to pull it out,
she said. Mister Dockery nodded quietly, though he added, no
need to startle the marsh. They climbed carefully onto the
muddy island. The willow branches swayed gently above them, as
if the tree had been waiting patiently for someone to
notice the problem. Mister Dockery grasped one side of the cork.
Missus Crumb took the other. The heron watched with the
seri expression of someone supervising a complicated teapot repair. Ready,
said Missus Crumb, Ready, said mister Dockery. They pulled, The
cork did not move. They pulled again. The cork shifted slightly,
with a soft, wet sound. Progress, said mister Dockery. They
pulled one more time. With a quiet PLoP, the enormous
cork popped free from the channel. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the marsh remembered how to flow. Water rushed gently
through the narrow channel beneath the willow roots. Ripples spread
outward across the still water. The reeds began whispering again.
The fog lifted slightly, as though relieved. In the distance.
The frog suddenly burst into enthusiastic singing, as if they
had been waiting impatiently backstage. Mister Dockery wiped his hands thoughtfully. Well,
he said, that seems to have resolved itself nicely. Missus
Crumb nodded, very tidy, catastrophe, she agreed. The heron stretched
its wings. Good work, it said. The marsh continued waking
up around them. Water drifted once more through the reeds.
Dragonflies resumed their quiet inspections of sunlight. Even the backwards
duck from earlier glided past again, this time facing the
correct direction. Mister Dockery made one final note in his notebook.
Catastrophe concluded politely, Missus Crumb pushed the boat back into
the water. They climbed aboard and began drifting home through
the now gently moving marsh. Behind them, Willow Island stood
quietly beneath the fog, its long branches trailing peacefully in
the restored current, and across Applewick Marsh, the frog sang
with renewed confidence, celebrating the successful resolution of a catastrophe
so quiet that the rest of the world would likely
never know it had happened at all. The quiet catastrophe
of Applewick Marsh. In a part of the countryside where
the fog arrived early, stayed politely late, and occasionally forgot
why it had come at all. There lay a stretch
of gentle wetland known as Applewick Marsh. It was not
a dramatic marsh. There were no sudden whirlpools, no shouting winds,
and certainly no monster's worth mentioning in respectable company. Instead,
the marsh preferred to conduct its business slowly. Water drifted
through tall reeds with the quiet patience of some one
tidying a room one teacup at a time. Dragon Flies
hovered thoughtfully in the air like tiny inspects of sunlight,
and every evening the frogs began their choir practice with
a careful seriousness of musicians who believed their performance might
be reviewed by the moon. Near the middle of this
calm and slightly soggy landscape stood a narrow wooden house
balanced on stilts above the shallow water. The house leaned
very slightly to the left, not dangerously, just enough that
visitors sometimes tilted their heads in sympathy. This house belonged
to mister Percival Dockery. Mister Dockery was a man of
advanced calmness and moderate mustache. He lived alone with a kettle,
a collection of extremely patient boots, and a notebook in
which he recorded the behavior of the marsh. Each morning
he would step onto his little porch with a cup
of tea and write down important observations, such as duck
looked suspicious today, or fog behaving thoughtfully. Mister Dockery believed
the marsh deserved careful study, not because it was dangerous,
but because it was the sort of place where small,
strange things happened so quietly that nobody noticed them until
several days later. On the morning our story begins, mister
Dockery woke at precisely seven o'clock and noticed something unusual. Immediately,
the marsh was silent. This was concerning Applewick. Marsh was
never completely silent, even on the sleepiest mornings. There were
always frogs clearing their throats, reeds rustling gently, or distant
birds arguing about extremely unimportant matters. But this morning there
was nothing. No croaking, no splashing, no gentle whisper of
wind through the reeds. The entire marsh seemed to be
holding its breath. Mister Dockery stood on the porch and
listened carefully, hum he said, Then he took a thoughtful
sip of tea. Very peculiar, he added. Just then something
drifted slowly past the house. It was a duck. Now,
ducks drifting through marshes are normally quite ordinary. However, this
duck appeared to be drifting backwards, not swimming backwards with purpose,
simply gliding backwards across the water, as if the marsh
itself had quietly reversed its opinion about direction. Mister Dockery
lowered his teacup. Good morning, he said politely. The duck
continued drifting backwards without replying. Mister Dockery made a note
in his notebook duck reversing. Unexpectedly, the duck disappeared into
the reeds.