 The Summer Theatre, welcome to The Summer Theatre, a dramatic hour of romance, love, and adventure. Tonight we present Daphne de Morier's startling tale, The Birds, starring Mr. Herbert Marshall. Ladies and gentlemen, this is your host, Don Wilson. Tonight we're presenting a brand new story by the famous author of Rebecca, Jamaica Inn, Frenchman's Creek, and many other favorites, Miss Daphne de Morier. Now this new story, however, is far different for many of these, and in many ways far more exciting. It's a tale I'm sure will haunt you for a long time to come. The title is simply, The Birds, and our star is Mr. Herbert Marshall. Our scene is London, and the office of a successful publisher of books. With him sits Jenkins, his editor. Before them on the broad shining surface of the desk is a manuscript, patterned, worn. It's bulk held together with a bit of string. Strange way to submit a story. You say there was no address on it? No, the author left no address, but I wish he'd read it, sir. You like it, huh? You think it's publishable? I don't know. It's terrifying. I can't seem to get it out of my mind. All right, Jenkins, all right. I'll read it. Mind you, it better be good. Just read it, sir. The title, The Birds, by John Wait. John Wait. John Wait. I'm writing this as a minute record of what has happened thus far, because I cannot help feeling that in the recounting of these events, I may, in some measure, come to an understanding of what has happened, and even perhaps why it has happened. The whole business is monstrous and overwhelming, and I'm not sure that human eyes will ever fall upon this, my journal. I am a writer of moderately successful fiction, and this small house on the Dover Coast is my castle, which I share with my wife, my 16-year-old daughter, my mother-in-law, and one yellow canary. The canary. His name is Chippekins. No, I didn't name him. My mother-in-law did. Chippekins belongs to Mother Dobbs, and bringing him here was an open and shut case of coals to Newcastle, for Dover is alive with birds, and has been my daily custom work-over to sit at the cliff's edge and smoke my pipe and watch and listen. The birds soaring and wheezing in great rushing flocks, flickering in a fat grey sheet just above the grassy slope of the hills, and then bursting all over a bunch, erupting into the sky, restless, ceaseless, ever-moving, ever-moving, slashing as one in a perfect arc up, and then for a split moment, almost invisible as in their turning, the profile, thin as grass, presents itself against the sky, and then as one, in cadence, back again, and with a slow chorus, gone, black and white, jacked door and gull, mingling in strange, restless partnership, seeking some strange liberation, never satisfied, never still, flocks of starlings rustling like silk, and the smaller birds, finches and larks, scattering from tree to hedge and back again, compelled by what? And below the sea birds waiting for the tide, they have more patience. Oyster catchers, red shanks, sandaling and curlew, watched by the water's edge, race the surf as it sucks away, revealing the prize. Farther out the fishermen, slim soaring gannets, ancient patient pelicans, black gulls, grey gulls, pale gulls, soaring, sighting and plummeting, wings folded, feet tight in, beach out, knife through the surface, down in a flash of silver to the play below. The autumn had been a long one, mellow and soft. The leaves had lingered on the trees, red and gold, somehow reluctant to fall. The days grew hazy and benevolent, shortening imperceptibly. And with their passing, the birds seemed more restless, more driven, more agitated. My neighbour, the farmer, drove his tractor. Long, even lines across the western hills, and his figure silhouetted in the driver's seat would be lost from time to time in the great cloud of wheeling, crying birds which followed his movements. And I remarked on this. Lots of birds around today, birds unusual and daring too. One or two gulls came so close to my head this afternoon, I thought they'd knock my cap off. As it was, I could scarcely see what I was doing when they were overhead, and I had the sun in my eyes. I have a notion the weather will change. It'll be a hard winter. That's why the birds are so restless. My friend, the farmer, said the weather would change on Tuesday, and he may have been right. I'm not certain. The fact is, the weather changed that night. And it was that night that it began. I've been asleep. What's that? Oh, something at the window. I'll go back to sleep, dear. I'm going to find out what it is. It was a bird. What kind I could not tell. The wind must have driven it to shelter on the sill. I went back to bed and, feeling my knuckles wet, put my mouth to the scratch. The bird had drawn blood. I suppose it was frightened, panicked, seeking shelter. The wind was indeed very cold. The weather had turned. Yes. See to the window, will you, dear? It's rattling. There will be a scene to it, Maiden. There's some bird out there trying to get in. Show it away. Can't sleep with that, no. What? No, get away. What was that? What happened? They went for me. Oh, John, you're still half asleep. Come back to bed. No, I tell you they did. Yes, dear, of course. Come to bed. What was that? Mother, Andrew. I'll get a light of candle. No, no hurry. I opened the door to our bedroom and crossed the land into the room Jill shared with Mother Dobbs. There was pitch black in the room, and the air was filled with small birds. I could feel them all about me. I swung my arms. They crawled through the open window. They stuck the walls of the ceiling. Oh, Father, Father. Quickly, Jill, come out. Mother Hobbs. I'm under the cover. Run for the door. I slammed the door after them. I didn't want the birds spreading through the house. Now in the darkness they sensed me a doll for me, tiny beaks and evil claws set to pierce and tear. I seized the quilt from the bed rounded over my head and then swinging a pillow at random. I went to work. I couldn't see what I was doing but I could feel the flooding of their bodies. I swung. Swung until my arm began to numb. All along I fought with them in the darkness. I do not know. The glass, the beating of wings, subsided and withdrew. And through the density of the quilt I became aware of light. I waited. Listened. But there was no sound. I dropped the quilt and stared about me in the cold, gray light. Dawn and the open window had called the living birds. The dead lay on the floor. They were all small birds. Robbins, finches, sparrows, blue tits, larks, bramblings. Birds that ordinarily kept to their own flux. Now dead and still in a shambles of feathers and broken glass. Outside it was cold, bitter cold. And the earth had all the hard black look of frost. Not white frost to shine in the morning sun. But black frost that de-east, de-east windblings. And across the field the sea. Fierce are now with the burning tide. It broke and crashed in the bay. Of the birds there was not a sign. Not so much as a sparrow. Nothing but the east wind and the sea. Do you want the wireless left on? Please, mother. Easy, Meg, that stuff stings. I suppose, too, don't want these scratches to infect. No, I suppose not. I'd say you ought to thank me all mighty. They didn't get in your eyes. That's what I'd say. Yes, mother. Nasty little creatures. One would hardly believe they belong to the same species as little chippy-chippy-kins here. Mmm, you're a proper little gentleman, aren't you, master chippy-kins? Not a bit like those horrid little savages, hmm? That's odd. What? He won't speak to me. Speak. Speak. Chip-chip-chee. Did Jill get off the school all right? Yeah. I brought the right clothing down. I didn't want her to see the room. Didn't want her frightened. She thought it quite a joke. Imagine she's telling the class all about it right now. I suppose. Come, come, little chippy-kins. Speak. Speak. Good morning, Mr. Wait. Good morning, Mr. Bell. An ounce of tobacco, please, my usual. Your usual? Yes, sir. And what do you think of the weather? Wireless says it's going on all over. There's nothing to do with the Arctic Circle. Oh, really? Black winter, that's what it is, out of the east. I had the wind come up in the night. Um, did you hear any birds? Birds? What birds? We had them at our place last night. Scores of them came to the bedroom. Quite savage they were. Here, look, look at my hand. Well, well. My goodness, I never heard of birds acting savage, not our birds. I assure you, these scratches are real. Maybe they were some of those foreign birds from the Arctic Circle. Tell you what, put out some crumbs for them. That's what I'd do. Put out some crumbs. Paper, John? Yes. No mention of birds. I've been watching the field. So have I. I haven't seen a single one. I know. Strange. Yes. Do you tell anyone? Yes. What'd they say? Put out crumbs. I'll get a sack and clean up the bedroom. Their bodies filled the sack. The ground had frozen during the night. It was too hard to dig. I went down the cliff path to the beach. The sky was leaden. The sea was flat, calm, oily. Not a sound of birds. I kept a hold in the sand. And as I did this, I saw them. The gulls. Out there. Riding the sea. I thought at first to be seascaped. Windfroth were gulls. Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands. They rose and fell in the trough of the sea. Silent. Like a mighty fleet at anchor. To the eastward and to the west, the gulls were there. They stretched as far as the eye could reach in close formation. Packed line on line. Somebody ought to know of this. Something should be said. But what? Could I call the police? Hello, constable? I want to report some birds. No, no, they think me mad. They think me drunk. Take my report with grateful lightness and thank me. But they were out there. Waiting. Waiting. Or what? What? About the birds. 11 am today. Reports from all over the country are coming in hourly about the vast quantity of birds flocking above towns, villages and outlying districts. Causing obstruction and damage and even attacking individuals. It is thought that the Arctic Airstream at present covering the British Isles is causing birds to migrate south in immense numbers and that intense hunger may drive these birds to attack human beings. Householders are warned to see to their windows, doors and chimneys and to take reasonable precautions for the safety of their children. A further statement will be issued later. There you see. Wait until Mr. Bell hears that. And just now down on the beach, I saw a million gulls riding on the sea. Waiting. Waiting? Waiting for what, darling? I don't know. Well, the bulletin said the birds are hungry. In the shed were all sorts of boards and sheathings left over from the blackout days of the war. And I spent the next few hours putting these up. There was no thought of my novel this day. Actually the writer was a lazy creature and welcomes any diversion from his work. Somehow this seemed to be something a little bigger than diversion. Do you think that's really necessary, John? I don't like to take chances. But they were such little birds. I'm not thinking of those. Oh? The gulls. I see. Are you going to do the downstairs, too? I think I better. A bit dark with the windows all boarded up. At each window the process was the same. I nailed the boards to the sills from within the rooms. And by the time I reached the kitchen, me and Mrs. Dobbs were listening to the wireless again. The sky was so dense at one o'clock this afternoon but it seemed as if the city was covered by a vast black cloud. The birds settled on rooftops, on window ledges, and on chimneys. The sight has been so unusual that traffic came to a standstill in many of our affairs. Work was abandoned in shops and offices and the streets were, and still are, crowded with people standing about to watch the birds. We take you now to our roving microphone in Piccadilly Second. Has been standing here for hours. We cannot begin to describe the enormous variety of birds which are circling overhead. I have never seen anything like it. A standing beside me is the gentleman, what is your name, sir? Jenkins, Peter Jenkins. What do you think of the birds, Mr. Jenkins? Oh, never saw nothing like it. I swear I never did. Well, just before we went on the air, you were telling these people and myself about your cat. I wonder if you would mind repeating that for our audience. They wouldn't want to hear none of that. Oh, I'm sure they would. Well, I've got these three mouses, you see, big bullionelli cats there, hard as nails. And at where I live, the birds keep a wide berth around my cottage. Well, this morning I looked out at the window and saw what we all saw and I says to my cats, I says, all right men, Arthur, Freddie and you, Leon, as an atom. You see, one of their jobs, my cat's job, that is, one of their jobs is to keep the birds scared out of the vegetable patch. So I opened the door and they started out. Then they saw all them birds and they just turned around with their back air all up and their tails looking like porcupines. They turned and run into the bedroom and under the bed and wouldn't come out for love or money or the dish of cold water I throw at them. Thank you, Mr. Peter Jenkins. And now we have a lady here down like a bone. What is your name, Miss? I can't come out, there's nothing to be nervous about. What are you doing? I thought I'd see if the American stations have heard about it. What's that? That's the American's reaction. Do you think they never do take a thing seriously? It seems that we're having a little trouble with our mobile unit, a number of birds settled on the antenna. Well, can't you chase them off or something? I don't, don't stone anything. I'm sure we'll have the situation straightened out in a moment. Do you please bear with us on this most unusual of all days? Our main studio for a brief program of recorded music. If you want my opinion, it's all nonsense. That's what it is. Oh, mother, boarding this place up so we have to light the lamp and it's only three in the afternoon. Tell me, how much singing has Jippiekin's done today? Not a note. He's off his feet, that's what. Look at him. He's so nervous and agitated with all your banging. See? I saw. The bird seemed possessed. He flew from one corner to the other. His shiny black eyes flicking from one of us to another. Yellow wings quivering. Where? The ocean. Hmm? Well, you mean a cloud, that big black cloud? It's not a cloud, Tom. It was the gulls. The black mass of them that towered a mile high, they circled thousands upon thousands, lifting their wings against the wind. And they were silent. They made not a sound. They just went on soaring and circling, rising and falling, trying their strength against the cold east wind. I'm going for Jill. I'll wait for her at the school bus stop. You keep the door closed. I'll close until you hear me call. I thought you looked so funny. Please, Jill, do hurry. What's that strange cloud? I'll tell you what. Let's race the rest of the way. Oh, Father, you know I can beat you. Come on, then. Let your shilling. Wait a minute. Look at the cloud, Father. Jill, in the name of heaven. It's birds. Run. It's Link Ladder Times 2 Tuesdays on CBS Radio. That's right. At this time, you enjoy a lively, arched Link Ladder on House Party at its regular time. Then Tuesday nights on most of these same stations art is back again on People Are Funny. House Party in the daytime, People Are Funny in the evening. It's Link Ladder Times 2 Tuesdays on CBS Radio. Tomorrow, your share of fun is waiting for you on both of these laugh-packed shows. Back to of the birds, starring Mr. Herbert Marshall as John Wake. The birds are not deep. Had the gannets struck, I would surely have been killed on my own doorstep. The other birds, black gulls, white gulls, and so forth, have pecked and torn, but they were as yet still an experience of attacking human beings. And so had done no very serious damage. My preparations have been most fortunate. Throughout the afternoon, the birds have sailed the house without luck, and we sat in the kitchen and listened, re-listened, and we watched chipkins. The madness which had seized the other birds now was his, too. He glared at us with malevolent hatred in his tiny eyes. Just a short, pointed beak at us through the golden bars of his cage, threw himself again and again at the little gate, hoping to break it down. Oh, I'm afraid for him. He'll hurt himself. Good. Poor little man. He can't help himself. He must have caught something from all those awful birds outside. Turn on the wireless. Let's have the wireless. I'll do it. Father. What? In the school bus. You suppose... you suppose the kids are all right? Oh, yes. I wouldn't worry about it. I hope so. Chipkins, do leave off that, darling. You'll hurt yourself. Yes, baby. The mire's here. Oh! Father, what happened? He bit me. Here, look at my finger. Oh, keep it. I'll get the order. And you can leave off that, John Wait. As you said, Mother Dobbs, he can't help himself. I'm going upstairs and check things. Upstairs, it seemed worse. What bothered me the most were the bedroom fireplaces. They were quite close to the roof, and I could hear many birds that had made their way down the chimney. Now, with only a thin plywood thickness between them and the interior of the house, they screamed and scratched at the wood. I reinforced whatever I could, particularly on the windows. For wood, I tore the bottoms from the bureau drawers, knocked the panels out of several closet doors, tore down shelves, wherever I could find them. And then, deciding it would be too dangerous to hazard a night upstairs in separate rooms, I started carrying down armfuls of bedding to the kitchen. John, what on earth are you doing? I thought just the fun did sleep down here. Oh, you're carrying this game too far. How's your finger? It'll be real. Yeah, Jill, help your mother. Right, old father. And Meg, what for supper, huh? I've been left with cheese sandwiches. I hadn't intended going to the market this afternoon. Oh? I'll go in the morning. Yes, yes, of course. Finished moving things, I locked both bedroom doors. If they should break through the bedroom windows or fireplaces during the night, the doors would hold them for a while. And perhaps in their mad jamming of the rooms, they would smother. Perhaps they would die, banding I piled as much furniture as I could, made a solid wall of bureaus, tables, chests, mattresses, and so forth. Now, should they break through the doors, they would have this third barrier to a sale. But by that time, it would be over, surely. I regarded my handiwork with some pride and wondered, outside I could hear the birds beating against the house, things brushing the surface, sliding, scraping, seeking a way of entry. The sound of many bodies pressed together, shuffling on the sails. Now and again a thud, a crash, and some birds dived and fell. Many would kill themselves that way. But not enough. Never enough. Yes, Meg. There's to be another report in a moment. The man said so. Good. Yeah, I eat your cheese sandwich. It's good. Oh, thank you. This is London calling. A national emergency was proclaimed at four o'clock this afternoon. Measures are being taken to safeguard the life and property of the population. But it must be understood that these are not easy to affect immediately, owing to the unforeseen and unparalleled nature of the present crisis. Unparallel, get him. Every householder must take precautions through his own building. And where several people live together, as in cast and department, they must unite to do the utmost they can to prevent entry. It's absolutely imperative that every individual stay indoors tonight and that no one at all remain on the streets or roads or anywhere without doors. The birds in vast numbers are attacking anyone on site and have already begun an assault upon buildings. But these with new care should be inevitable. The population is asked to remain calm and not to panic. Owing to the exceptional nature of the emergency, there will be no further transmission from any broadcasting station until 7 a.m. tomorrow. Had a gramophone? Father, could I have a gramophone for my birthday? Yes, sweetheart. A gramophone. She'll have the best that money can buy. Mother, did you hear that? Yes, in July. Now, I suppose we all go to bed. It's been a long day. Wait. What is it? Good old, uh, yes. What do you intend doing? What was that, I wonder? Oh, probably a bomb at Sam's sort. I wouldn't worry about it. Well, I must say, I feel better now. Mother Dobbs, mind you say good night to Chippitings. I'm not speaking to him beyond great little wretch. I knew the sound. The sound of an exploding plane. And I remember tales of flyers who had blundered into flocks of geese and ducks. Bodies that splinter propellers and smashed windshields. And what could pilots do against birds? Suicidal birds. But at least it showed that somewhere in the country they were trying. Somewhere in some small back room at this very moment they were thinking, working. And they would succeed. They had to. Tom, they're gone. Listen. What's the time? Ten o'clock. Ten. That means the tide has turned. It's on the ebb. I wonder, Meg, do you suppose it would be that they only attack with the flood tide? I don't know, dear. What are you going to do? Where's the flashlight? On the mantel. I'm going outside. What's happening? The birds. They're gone, Mother. Gone, you say? Yes, John's going to have a look about. Oh, don't you do it. Why not? They're all out there waiting, Mother. Waiting all around the door silently for you to open it. Um, do you suppose that... Well, there's one way to find out. It was a scene of such violent death those few men have witnessed. All about me, wherever I threw the torch, lay their bodies, drifted as snow drifts, as sand drifts. Their eyes brightened death, twinkling in unwinking points of fire. It was silent. So silent. Yet I had the feeling that out there, somewhere, there was life. There was a shovel near the door, and I put it to use. First I cleared a path from the door to the side of the house, and there I flashed my torch up. Every pane of glass had been smashed. The jagged edges flashed back my light. Many had birds impaled on them. Beyond, I saw the boards. They looked roughened and strange. There were flecks and streaks of blood on the boards, and a fine crisscross of splinters where the thousands upon thousands of bills had driven again and again into the wood. I shoveled the birds up against the windows and jammed them with my hands into the broken panes. I piled them on the sills and the cracks. A futile gesture. With the flood tide, another wave of assaulters would come and drive through these. But it would take time, and we needed time. And what are we going to do now? I ought to go over to the farmers. They've got food there and wood. I need more wood. Well, you're not to go. I won't let you go. I'll not be left here alone, John. All right, Meg. I'll wait until morning, until the next ebb tide. Sorry. I understand you. John, what's that? Where? On the hill, see? Fire. It was just next to the spot where I'd spoken to the farmers. He drove his tractor. How long ago? Two days? Two months? On the same little hillside. One of the plagues, Meg. Come on, let's go back to bed. The circuit attack was much worse. There was something different about it, something I found difficult to analyze. And while I was thinking about it, I watched the canary. He too had been quiet during the lull, but now he's stormed and raged again, beat at the bars of his cage. And I thought of the birds in cages all over the world. Parrots, lovebirds. Peacocks, yes, and ostriches. What of the ostriches? And the great red flamingos and the big swans in the parks with their powerful wings and beaks. What's that noise? Noise from the chimney. I don't know. Let's see. Sounds like... sounds like they're trying to get us through this chimney. We've got the fire. I get too low. John, do something. Now they're never going to stand back. Back? This'll clear the mountains. That's got it. Jill, you keep the fire up. Don't spare the wood. All right, father. I'll start the promise. We'll have some cocoa. Good idea. Shall I check and see what's happening upstairs? No, Jill. You watch the fire. Keep it blazing. Good, Chippykins. Now what? He's hurt his wing against the bars. Has he rarely? Silly little man. Mama warned you. At the head of the stairs, I pushed the barricade aside and listened at the bedroom doors. They'd broken in and I could hear them screaming and scratching at the thin doors. And with the scratching, I became conscious of a new sound. It sounded like talons. Could the hawks have taken over what the gulls had failed to do? The hawks. The birds of prey. Buzzards. Kestles. Falcons. I'd forgotten the birds of prey. And as I listened, I could hear the soft patter of thousands of feet across the floors of the bedroom and the sounds of talons. Of spintering wood. I rebuilt the barricade. Descended into the kitchen. The others have not yet noticed that soft patter just above our heads. I pray that they would not. Outside, the birds continued to dash against the ground, against the walls. Those were the herring gulls. The suicide boys. Kemicazi fighters. They had no brains. The blackbacks were something different. They knew what they were doing. So did the buzzards. The hawks. Thought of the things to do in the morning. There were so many things we needed to withstand siege. A car. If I could hire a car between the tides and use it to carry things. Food. Oil for the stove. Lumber and nails. Sheets of metal for the windows. All so many things. I wondered. And worried. And dozed. John, it's seven. Don't you want to hear what the wireless has to say? Yes. It's 20. I can't understand it. Don't touch the knob. Leave it on the home station. I thought if I jiggled it a bit. No, no. They've made a mistake. They meant they'd go on with eight. Not seven. Oh, that must be it. After eight, John. Maybe it's broken. Oh, I've checked out. It's working all day. Birds are letting up? I thought they heard something. No, no. No, nothing yet. Oh, nine o'clock's past. There's nothing on the wireless. Nothing. I know. What does it mean, John? Don't you see? Not even the shortwave. Not even the cold things. No. Birds are gone. Look at Chippekins sleeping. There's someone, somewhere in the world, someone of the countless transmitters. Shall we open the door? Yes, there's a lot to do before the next flood tide. This is America's 10th Farm Safety Week, proclaimed by the president, supported by all agricultural organizations. The occasion is far more than academic interest to non-farms, too. Every farm accident that cuts production affects supply and prices. This week, on the farm and off, in all farm-connected industries, check your equipment and habits for safety first. One billion dollars a year is lost from farm accidents. Eliminate falls, fires, and equipment failure accidents. Live to farm as you farm to live. We now pause for station identification. This is the CBS Radio Network, earned to the Summer Theater as the curtain rises on Act 3 of the Birds, starring Mr. Herbert Marshall as John Waite. The single brief glimpse through the open door was enough. I slammed it and paused to consider this new dilemma. The birds were out there, silent and watchful, waiting. Not a single one flew. They stood across the yard and in the fields, just on the fence along bushes and in the trees, all silent, watchful, and waiting. What are we going to do? I don't know. I didn't move, just like Chippikins, every one of them. Yes. Here, Chippikins. Here's my finger. See? Go on, take a bite. He won't move. Is he asleep? No, he seems drugged. Or exhausted. What are you doing? Look at them. They're just sitting there. Here, give me that book. There! It's like they're all hypnotized. I'm going to the farm. Then you'd better take me. Me too, Father, please. Oh, I guess we better all go. There'll be things to carry. Bundle up warm now. It's better cold out there. I'm going to the road. There's a strange grey day. Funereal. And the birds all about us. Black and silent and waiting. These were the land birds. Out on the bay, I saw the endless grey carpet of sea birds, riding the soft spells of the Ebtide. And waiting. Well, there it is. Oh, they did have a time of it. Yes. I think you'd better wait here. I want to go with you. No. I want you to stay and take care of your mother. Look, John, the cows are unharmed and the sheep. I guess it wasn't then the birds were after. Poor thing. She wants milking. Good idea. There's some buckets over there in the shed, Joe. You and Mother Dobbs milk some of the cows. And I'll come with you, John. You sure you want to? Yes. Here in the yard, the birds sat motionless watching. And on the roof of the house and in the trees and on the sills of the broken windows, sprawled near the back door, I found the farmer's body. Inside, the place was a shambles, but the loud when the storeroom was intact and we took sacks of flour and a tub of butter and sugar and tinned meats. Supplies for a siege. Upstairs. Sprawled by the telephone with the farmer's wife. I want to try the wire. It's no use. Here, carry these things out of the car. We have much time, you know. We're taking their car? Yes. Is it right? Call it a neighbor alone, if you like. We'll need more oil for the stove. Yes, I'll get it. We have work to do. The farmer had been planning to build a new silo and stacked in the barn the large sheets of galvanized iron. I found snips, too, in the keg of nails. I was racing against time. The second trip, I made alone. This time, I was in search of lumber. Hardwood. I tore up the flooring in the hall of the farmhouse. There was a bale of barbed wire. I tied it to the back of the car and as a final futile gesture, I went upstairs to the telephone. One last look round. It was going late. And the final gesture. Man lives not by bread alone. I took their gunner phone. As I came down the little lane to our door, I glanced out to sea and my heart stood still. I couldn't believe my eyes. There were ships there. Great battleships, three of them. The Royal Navy. Throughout the proud history of this isle. In time of crisis. Oh, I was wrong. The Navy was not there. The girls were rising from the sea. The tide was turning. Help me quickly. It's time. All right. Yes, hurry. In the house. It's the granite clock. No, not now. It would only take a minute. The records. I've got to. Sound is different there, somehow. Don't worry about it. All right, dear. Mr. Chippkins, you're an evil little man. Who won? Oh, my dear. It may seem a little old-fashioned to you, but your father and I used to find him right in the town. There was a soft scratching at the windows. This didn't bother me. Those were the small birds. Or the hawks who put up sheets of metal. That meant nails, and the nails were in the car. Still, I had the snips. There were so many things to do. Fortifications to erect. A pan of defense to follow. Abtide. The barbed wire stands in the hole. I intend to nail it across the outside of the windows. I don't think they will be able to get through that. And the galvanized metal is cut to size. When I get the nails, I will put it up. I'm becoming distressed about the main door. The falcons, the hawks, the birds of prey continue to dig at it. But if we can't but survive this phase of the attack, we may make out. We have food and fuel for a week. But with each new attack, they grow more intelligent. Their numbers are increasing steadily. When will it end? How will it end? And as I sit here staring at the pages I have written, I cannot have wondering why, why the Almighty has decreed that this is to be the end. Is this the entire manuscript, Jenkins? Yes, sir. That's all there is. Well, you're our editor. Will you make of it? I'm not quite sure, sir. I wish I could talk with the author about it, but as I told you, the story was submitted with no address. I haven't been able to find a trace of John Wait. Doubtedly, he's one of those curious shabby fellows who live in Squawong. Great prophetic visions you know of. That's it, sir. What? Prophetic. That's what the story is. Almost a warning. What way, Jenkins? Well, sir, I think it has to do with nature and her system of checks and balances. You see, what he's saying is that a man with his ever-recurring wars, his new weapons of destruction, threatens to destroy not only himself, but all forms of life. And nature might find a way to prevent this. By wiping out man, you mean? Getting rid of him? Yes, sir. Nature, or the Almighty, call it what you will, just isn't going to allow all life to come to an end. And so, through the birds, it will quite simply take care of the situation. Hmm. Yes, Jenkins, perhaps that's it. Perhaps? Who knows? Now, once again, here is our star, Mr. Herbert Marshall. You know, Don, it was a pleasure doing a story as odd as the bird, even though I do think you'll build me incorrectly. What do you mean, Bart? First of all, I was scared to the star of the piece when you considered the gulls and the guannets. Villains that they wear, they ran the whole show. Well, I suppose you're right, Bart, but after all, we couldn't build a bird. Build a bird, indeed. You made me say it, Bart, but seriously, you still like birds, don't you? Oh, of course I do. But now I understand something I never did before. What's that? You remember during the war we had airplane spotters, men and women, too, who spent hours canning the skies before the enemy? Oh, yes, yes, of course. Well, tonight I think I've at last discovered what bird watches are for. Well, I'd give up. But anyway, thank you, Herbert Marshall, for being with us tonight. It was a great pleasure. Good night, everybody. Tonight, you've heard Daphne du Maurier's terrifying tale, The Birds, especially adapted for the summer theater by James Pohl and starring Mr. Herbert Marshall. Beatured in the cast were Betty Lou Gearsen as Meg, Laurie Gordon as Dobbs, Betty Harford as Jill, Herb Butterfield as the publisher, William Johnstone as the editor, Tudor Owen as the shopkeeper, Ben Wright and Alistair Duncan as BBC announcer. Our producer-director is Fred McCarr. Herbert Marshall may shortly be seen in Riders to the Stars, a United Artists release. Now, this is your host, Don Wilson, reminding you to be with us again next week at the same time when the summer theater will present One Foot in Heaven by Hartzell Spence, and the star will be Mr. Dana Andrews. This is the CD-AS radio network.