CHAPTER XII. THE RETURN OF ULYSSES

I.

THE RIVER BANK

The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning

his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders

and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had

dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his

black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the

air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his

dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and

longing. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his

brush on the floor, said “Bother!” and “O blow!” and also “Hang

spring-cleaning!” and bolted out of the house without even waiting to

put on his coat. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and he

made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the

gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer

to the sun and air. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and

scrooged and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and

scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself,

“Up we go! Up we go!” till at last, pop! his snout came out into the

sunlight, and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great

meadow.

“This is fine!” he said to himself. “This is better than whitewashing!”

The sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated

brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long

the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a

shout. Jumping off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living and

the delight of spring without its cleaning, he pursued his way across

the meadow till he reached the hedge on the further side.

“Hold up!” said an elderly rabbit at the gap. “Sixpence for the

privilege of passing by the private road!” He was bowled over in an

instant by the impatient and contemptuous Mole, who trotted along the

side of the hedge chaffing the other rabbits as they peeped hurriedly

from their holes to see what the row was about. “Onion-sauce!

Onion-sauce!” he remarked jeeringly, and was gone before they could

think of a thoroughly satisfactory reply. Then they all started

grumbling at each other. “How _stupid_ you are! Why didn’t you tell

him——” “Well, why didn’t _you_ say——” “You might have reminded him——”

and so on, in the usual way; but, of course, it was then much too late,

as is always the case.

It all seemed too good to be true. Hither and thither through the

meadows he rambled busily, along the hedgerows, across the copses,

finding everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves

thrusting—everything happy, and progressive, and occupied. And instead

of having an uneasy conscience pricking him and whispering “whitewash!”

he somehow could only feel how jolly it was to be the only idle dog

among all these busy citizens. After all, the best part of a holiday is

perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other

fellows busy working.

He thought his happiness was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly

along, suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed river. Never in his

life had he seen a river before—this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied

animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and

leaving them with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that

shook themselves free, and were caught and held again. All was a-shake

and a-shiver—glints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter

and bubble. The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side

of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a

man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at

last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a

babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the

heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.

As he sat on the grass and looked across the river, a dark hole in the

bank opposite, just above the water’s edge, caught his eye, and

dreamily he fell to considering what a nice snug dwelling-place it

would make for an animal with few wants and fond of a bijou riverside

residence, above flood level and remote from noise and dust. As he

gazed, something bright and small seemed to twinkle down in the heart

of it, vanished, then twinkled once more like a tiny star. But it could

hardly be a star in such an unlikely situation; and it was too

glittering and small for a glow-worm. Then, as he looked, it winked at

him, and so declared itself to be an eye; and a small face began

gradually to grow up round it, like a frame round a picture.

A brown little face, with whiskers.

A grave round face, with the same twinkle in its eye that had first

attracted his notice.

Small neat ears and thick silky hair.

It was the Water Rat!

Then the two animals stood and regarded each other cautiously.

“Hullo, Mole!” said the Water Rat.

“Hullo, Rat!” said the Mole.

“Would you like to come over?” enquired the Rat presently.

“Oh, its all very well to _talk_,” said the Mole, rather pettishly, he

being new to a river and riverside life and its ways.

The Rat said nothing, but stooped and unfastened a rope and hauled on

it; then lightly stepped into a little boat which the Mole had not

observed. It was painted blue outside and white within, and was just

the size for two animals; and the Mole’s whole heart went out to it at

once, even though he did not yet fully understand its uses.

The Rat sculled smartly across and made fast. Then he held up his

forepaw as the Mole stepped gingerly down. “Lean on that!” he said.

“Now then, step lively!” and the Mole to his surprise and rapture found

himself actually seated in the stern of a real boat.

“This has been a wonderful day!” said he, as the Rat shoved off and

took to the sculls again. “Do you know, I’ve never been in a boat

before in all my life.”

“What?” cried the Rat, open-mouthed: “Never been in a—you never—well

I—what have you been doing, then?”

“Is it so nice as all that?” asked the Mole shyly, though he was quite

prepared to believe it as he leant back in his seat and surveyed the

cushions, the oars, the rowlocks, and all the fascinating fittings, and

felt the boat sway lightly under him.

“Nice? It’s the _only_ thing,” said the Water Rat solemnly, as he leant

forward for his stroke. “Believe me, my young friend, there is

_nothing_—absolute nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing

about in boats. Simply messing,” he went on dreamily:

“messing—about—in—boats; messing——”

“Look ahead, Rat!” cried the Mole suddenly.

It was too late. The boat struck the bank full tilt. The dreamer, the

joyous oarsman, lay on his back at the bottom of the boat, his heels in

the air.

“—about in boats—or _with_ boats,” the Rat went on composedly, picking

himself up with a pleasant laugh. “In or out of ’em, it doesn’t matter.

Nothing seems really to matter, that’s the charm of it. Whether you get

away, or whether you don’t; whether you arrive at your destination or

whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at

all, you’re always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and

when you’ve done it there’s always something else to do, and you can do

it if you like, but you’d much better not. Look here! If you’ve really

nothing else on hand this morning, supposing we drop down the river

together, and have a long day of it?”

The Mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness, spread his chest with a

sigh of full contentment, and leaned back blissfully into the soft

cushions. “_What_ a day I’m having!” he said. “Let us start at once!”

“Hold hard a minute, then!” said the Rat. He looped the painter through

a ring in his landing-stage, climbed up into his hole above, and after

a short interval reappeared staggering under a fat, wicker

luncheon-basket.

“Shove that under your feet,” he observed to the Mole, as he passed it

down into the boat. Then he untied the painter and took the sculls

again.

“What’s inside it?” asked the Mole, wriggling with curiosity.

“There’s cold chicken inside it,” replied the Rat briefly; “

coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssandwiches

pottedme atgingerbeerlemonadesodawater——”

“O stop, stop,” cried the Mole in ecstacies: “This is too much!”

“Do you really think so?” enquired the Rat seriously. “It’s only what I

always take on these little excursions; and the other animals are

always telling me that I’m a mean beast and cut it _very_ fine!”

The Mole never heard a word he was saying. Absorbed in the new life he

was entering upon, intoxicated with the sparkle, the ripple, the scents

and the sounds and the sunlight, he trailed a paw in the water and

dreamed long waking dreams. The Water Rat, like the good little fellow

he was, sculled steadily on and forebore to disturb him.

“I like your clothes awfully, old chap,” he remarked after some half an

hour or so had passed. “I’m going to get a black velvet smoking-suit

myself some day, as soon as I can afford it.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the Mole, pulling himself together with an

effort. “You must think me very rude; but all this is so new to me.

So—this—is—a—River!”

“_The_ River,” corrected the Rat.

“And you really live by the river? What a jolly life!”

“By it and with it and on it and in it,” said the Rat. “It’s brother

and sister to me, and aunts, and company, and food and drink, and

(naturally) washing. It’s my world, and I don’t want any other. What it

hasn’t got is not worth having, and what it doesn’t know is not worth

knowing. Lord! the times we’ve had together! Whether in winter or

summer, spring or autumn, it’s always got its fun and its excitements.

When the floods are on in February, and my cellars and basement are

brimming with drink that’s no good to me, and the brown water runs by

my best bedroom window; or again when it all drops away and, shows

patches of mud that smells like plum-cake, and the rushes and weed clog

the channels, and I can potter about dry shod over most of the bed of

it and find fresh food to eat, and things careless people have dropped

out of boats!”

“But isn’t it a bit dull at times?” the Mole ventured to ask. “Just you

and the river, and no one else to pass a word with?”

“No one else to—well, I mustn’t be hard on you,” said the Rat with

forbearance. “You’re new to it, and of course you don’t know. The bank

is so crowded nowadays that many people are moving away altogether: O

no, it isn’t what it used to be, at all. Otters, kingfishers,

dabchicks, moorhens, all of them about all day long and always wanting

you to _do_ something—as if a fellow had no business of his own to

attend to!”

“What lies over _there?_” asked the Mole, waving a paw towards a

background of woodland that darkly framed the water-meadows on one side

of the river.

“That? O, that’s just the Wild Wood,” said the Rat shortly. “We don’t

go there very much, we river-bankers.”

“Aren’t they—aren’t they very _nice_ people in there?” said the Mole, a

trifle nervously.

“W-e-ll,” replied the Rat, “let me see. The squirrels are all right.

_And_ the rabbits—some of ’em, but rabbits are a mixed lot. And then

there’s Badger, of course. He lives right in the heart of it; wouldn’t

live anywhere else, either, if you paid him to do it. Dear old Badger!

Nobody interferes with _him_. They’d better not,” he added

significantly.

“Why, who _should_ interfere with him?” asked the Mole.

“Well, of course—there—are others,” explained the Rat in a hesitating

sort of way.

“Weasels—and stoats—and foxes—and so on. They’re all right in a way—I’m

very good friends with them—pass the time of day when we meet, and all

that—but they break out sometimes, there’s no denying it, and

then—well, you can’t really trust them, and that’s the fact.”

The Mole knew well that it is quite against animal-etiquette to dwell

on possible trouble ahead, or even to allude to it; so he dropped the

subject.

“And beyond the Wild Wood again?” he asked: “Where it’s all blue and

dim, and one sees what may be hills or perhaps they mayn’t, and

something like the smoke of towns, or is it only cloud-drift?”

“Beyond the Wild Wood comes the Wide World,” said the Rat. “And that’s

something that doesn’t matter, either to you or me. I’ve never been

there, and I’m never going, nor you either, if you’ve got any sense at

all. Don’t ever refer to it again, please. Now then! Here’s our

backwater at last, where we’re going to lunch.”

Leaving the main stream, they now passed into what seemed at first

sight like a little land-locked lake. Green turf sloped down to either

edge, brown snaky tree-roots gleamed below the surface of the quiet

water, while ahead of them the silvery shoulder and foamy tumble of a

weir, arm-in-arm with a restless dripping mill-wheel, that held up in

its turn a grey-gabled mill-house, filled the air with a soothing

murmur of sound, dull and smothery, yet with little clear voices

speaking up cheerfully out of it at intervals. It was so very beautiful

that the Mole could only hold up both forepaws and gasp, “O my! O my! O

my!”

The Rat brought the boat alongside the bank, made her fast, helped the

still awkward Mole safely ashore, and swung out the luncheon-basket.

The Mole begged as a favour to be allowed to unpack it all by himself;

and the Rat was very pleased to indulge him, and to sprawl at full

length on the grass and rest, while his excited friend shook out the

table-cloth and spread it, took out all the mysterious packets one by

one and arranged their contents in due order, still gasping, “O my! O

my!” at each fresh revelation. When all was ready, the Rat said, “Now,

pitch in, old fellow!” and the Mole was indeed very glad to obey, for

he had started his spring-cleaning at a very early hour that morning,

as people _will_ do, and had not paused for bite or sup; and he had

been through a very great deal since that distant time which now seemed

so many days ago.

“What are you looking at?” said the Rat presently, when the edge of

their hunger was somewhat dulled, and the Mole’s eyes were able to

wander off the table-cloth a little.

“I am looking,” said the Mole, “at a streak of bubbles that I see

travelling along the surface of the water. That is a thing that strikes

me as funny.”

“Bubbles? Oho!” said the Rat, and chirruped cheerily in an inviting

sort of way.

A broad glistening muzzle showed itself above the edge of the bank, and

the Otter hauled himself out and shook the water from his coat.

“Greedy beggars!” he observed, making for the provender. “Why didn’t

you invite me, Ratty?”

“This was an impromptu affair,” explained the Rat. “By the way—my

friend Mr. Mole.”

“Proud, I’m sure,” said the Otter, and the two animals were friends

forthwith.

“Such a rumpus everywhere!” continued the Otter. “All the world seems

out on the river to-day. I came up this backwater to try and get a

moment’s peace, and then stumble upon you fellows!—At least—I beg

pardon—I don’t exactly mean that, you know.”

There was a rustle behind them, proceeding from a hedge wherein last

year’s leaves still clung thick, and a stripy head, with high shoulders

behind it, peered forth on them.

“Come on, old Badger!” shouted the Rat.

The Badger trotted forward a pace or two; then grunted, “H’m! Company,”

and turned his back and disappeared from view.

“That’s _just_ the sort of fellow he is!” observed the disappointed

Rat. “Simply hates Society! Now we shan’t see any more of him to-day.

Well, tell us, _who’s_ out on the river?”

“Toad’s out, for one,” replied the Otter. “In his brand-new wager-boat;

new togs, new everything!”

The two animals looked at each other and laughed.

“Once, it was nothing but sailing,” said the Rat, “Then he tired of

that and took to punting. Nothing would please him but to punt all day

and every day, and a nice mess he made of it. Last year it was

house-boating, and we all had to go and stay with him in his

house-boat, and pretend we liked it. He was going to spend the rest of

his life in a house-boat. It’s all the same, whatever he takes up; he

gets tired of it, and starts on something fresh.”

“Such a good fellow, too,” remarked the Otter reflectively: “But no

stability—especially in a boat!”

From where they sat they could get a glimpse of the main stream across

the island that separated them; and just then a wager-boat flashed into

view, the rower—a short, stout figure—splashing badly and rolling a

good deal, but working his hardest. The Rat stood up and hailed him,

but Toad—for it was he—shook his head and settled sternly to his work.

“He’ll be out of the boat in a minute if he rolls like that,” said the

Rat, sitting down again.

“Of course he will,” chuckled the Otter. “Did I ever tell you that good

story about Toad and the lock-keeper? It happened this way. Toad....”

An errant May-fly swerved unsteadily athwart the current in the

intoxicated fashion affected by young bloods of May-flies seeing life.

A swirl of water and a “cloop!” and the May-fly was visible no more.

Neither was the Otter.

The Mole looked down. The voice was still in his ears, but the turf

whereon he had sprawled was clearly vacant. Not an Otter to be seen, as

far as the distant horizon.

But again there was a streak of bubbles on the surface of the river.

The Rat hummed a tune, and the Mole recollected that animal-etiquette

forbade any sort of comment on the sudden disappearance of one’s

friends at any moment, for any reason or no reason whatever.

“Well, well,” said the Rat, “I suppose we ought to be moving. I wonder

which of us had better pack the luncheon-basket?” He did not speak as

if he was frightfully eager for the treat.

“O, please let me,” said the Mole. So, of course, the Rat let him.

Packing the basket was not quite such pleasant work as unpacking the

basket. It never is. But the Mole was bent on enjoying everything, and

although just when he had got the basket packed and strapped up tightly

he saw a plate staring up at him from the grass, and when the job had

been done again the Rat pointed out a fork which anybody ought to have

seen, and last of all, behold! the mustard pot, which he had been

sitting on without knowing it—still, somehow, the thing got finished at

last, without much loss of temper.

The afternoon sun was getting low as the Rat sculled gently homewards

in a dreamy mood, murmuring poetry-things over to himself, and not

paying much attention to Mole. But the Mole was very full of lunch, and

self-satisfaction, and pride, and already quite at home in a boat (so

he thought) and was getting a bit restless besides: and presently he

said, “Ratty! Please, _I_ want to row, now!”

The Rat shook his head with a smile. “Not yet, my young friend,” he

said—“wait till you’ve had a few lessons. It’s not so easy as it

looks.”

The Mole was quiet for a minute or two. But he began to feel more and

more jealous of Rat, sculling so strongly and so easily along, and his

pride began to whisper that he could do it every bit as well. He jumped

up and seized the sculls, so suddenly, that the Rat, who was gazing out

over the water and saying more poetry-things to himself, was taken by

surprise and fell backwards off his seat with his legs in the air for

the second time, while the triumphant Mole took his place and grabbed

the sculls with entire confidence.

“Stop it, you _silly_ ass!” cried the Rat, from the bottom of the boat.

“You can’t do it! You’ll have us over!”

The Mole flung his sculls back with a flourish, and made a great dig at

the water. He missed the surface altogether, his legs flew up above his

head, and he found himself lying on the top of the prostrate Rat.

Greatly alarmed, he made a grab at the side of the boat, and the next

moment—Sploosh!

Over went the boat, and he found himself struggling in the river.

O my, how cold the water was, and O, how _very_ wet it felt. How it

sang in his ears as he went down, down, down! How bright and welcome

the sun looked as he rose to the surface coughing and spluttering! How

black was his despair when he felt himself sinking again! Then a firm

paw gripped him by the back of his neck. It was the Rat, and he was

evidently laughing—the Mole could _feel_ him laughing, right down his

arm and through his paw, and so into his—the Mole’s—neck.

The Rat got hold of a scull and shoved it under the Mole’s arm; then he

did the same by the other side of him and, swimming behind, propelled

the helpless animal to shore, hauled him out, and set him down on the

bank, a squashy, pulpy lump of misery.

When the Rat had rubbed him down a bit, and wrung some of the wet out

of him, he said, “Now, then, old fellow! Trot up and down the

towing-path as hard as you can, till you’re warm and dry again, while I

dive for the luncheon-basket.”

So the dismal Mole, wet without and ashamed within, trotted about till

he was fairly dry, while the Rat plunged into the water again,

recovered the boat, righted her and made her fast, fetched his floating

property to shore by degrees, and finally dived successfully for the

luncheon-basket and struggled to land with it.

When all was ready for a start once more, the Mole, limp and dejected,

took his seat in the stern of the boat; and as they set off, he said in

a low voice, broken with emotion, “Ratty, my generous friend! I am very

sorry indeed for my foolish and ungrateful conduct. My heart quite

fails me when I think how I might have lost that beautiful

luncheon-basket. Indeed, I have been a complete ass, and I know it.

Will you overlook it this once and forgive me, and let things go on as

before?”

“That’s all right, bless you!” responded the Rat cheerily. “What’s a

little wet to a Water Rat? I’m more in the water than out of it most

days. Don’t you think any more about it; and, look here! I really think

you had better come and stop with me for a little time. It’s very plain

and rough, you know—not like Toad’s house at all—but you haven’t seen

that yet; still, I can make you comfortable. And I’ll teach you to row,

and to swim, and you’ll soon be as handy on the water as any of us.”

The Mole was so touched by his kind manner of speaking that he could

find no voice to answer him; and he had to brush away a tear or two

with the back of his paw. But the Rat kindly looked in another

direction, and presently the Mole’s spirits revived again, and he was

even able to give some straight back-talk to a couple of moorhens who

were sniggering to each other about his bedraggled appearance.

When they got home, the Rat made a bright fire in the parlour, and

planted the Mole in an arm-chair in front of it, having fetched down a

dressing-gown and slippers for him, and told him river stories till

supper-time. Very thrilling stories they were, too, to an

earth-dwelling animal like Mole. Stories about weirs, and sudden

floods, and leaping pike, and steamers that flung hard bottles—at least

bottles were certainly flung, and _from_ steamers, so presumably _by_

them; and about herons, and how particular they were whom they spoke

to; and about adventures down drains, and night-fishings with Otter, or

excursions far a-field with Badger. Supper was a most cheerful meal;

but very shortly afterwards a terribly sleepy Mole had to be escorted

upstairs by his considerate host, to the best bedroom, where he soon

laid his head on his pillow in great peace and contentment, knowing

that his new-found friend the River was lapping the sill of his window.

This day was only the first of many similar ones for the emancipated

Mole, each of them longer and full of interest as the ripening summer

moved onward. He learnt to swim and to row, and entered into the joy of

running water; and with his ear to the reed-stems he caught, at

intervals, something of what the wind went whispering so constantly

among them.

II.

THE OPEN ROAD

“Ratty,” said the Mole suddenly, one bright summer morning, “if you

please, I want to ask you a favour.”

The Rat was sitting on the river bank, singing a little song. He had

just composed it himself, so he was very taken up with it, and would

not pay proper attention to Mole or anything else. Since early morning

he had been swimming in the river, in company with his friends the

ducks. And when the ducks stood on their heads suddenly, as ducks will,

he would dive down and tickle their necks, just under where their chins

would be if ducks had chins, till they were forced to come to the

surface again in a hurry, spluttering and angry and shaking their

feathers at him, for it is impossible to say quite _all_ you feel when

your head is under water. At last they implored him to go away and

attend to his own affairs and leave them to mind theirs. So the Rat

went away, and sat on the river bank in the sun, and made up a song

about them, which he called

“DUCKS’ DITTY.”

All along the backwater,

Through the rushes tall,

Ducks are a-dabbling,

Up tails all!

Ducks’ tails, drakes’ tails,

Yellow feet a-quiver,

Yellow bills all out of sight

Busy in the river!

Slushy green undergrowth

Where the roach swim—

Here we keep our larder,

Cool and full and dim.

Everyone for what he likes!

_We_ like to be

Heads down, tails up,

Dabbling free!

High in the blue above

Swifts whirl and call—

_We_ are down a-dabbling

Uptails all!

“I don’t know that I think so _very_ much of that little song, Rat,”

observed the Mole cautiously. He was no poet himself and didn’t care

who knew it; and he had a candid nature.

“Nor don’t the ducks neither,” replied the Rat cheerfully. “They say,

‘_Why_ can’t fellows be allowed to do what they like _when_ they like

and _as_ they like, instead of other fellows sitting on banks and

watching them all the time and making remarks and poetry and things

about them? What _nonsense_ it all is!’ That’s what the ducks say.”

“So it is, so it is,” said the Mole, with great heartiness.

“No, it isn’t!” cried the Rat indignantly.

“Well then, it isn’t, it isn’t,” replied the Mole soothingly. “But what

I wanted to ask you was, won’t you take me to call on Mr. Toad? I’ve

heard so much about him, and I do so want to make his acquaintance.”

“Why, certainly,” said the good-natured Rat, jumping to his feet and

dismissing poetry from his mind for the day. “Get the boat out, and

we’ll paddle up there at once. It’s never the wrong time to call on

Toad. Early or late he’s always the same fellow. Always good-tempered,

always glad to see you, always sorry when you go!”

“He must be a very nice animal,” observed the Mole, as he got into the

boat and took the sculls, while the Rat settled himself comfortably in

the stern.

“He is indeed the best of animals,” replied Rat. “So simple, so

good-natured, and so affectionate. Perhaps he’s not very clever—we

can’t all be geniuses; and it may be that he is both boastful and

conceited. But he has got some great qualities, has Toady.”

Rounding a bend in the river, they came in sight of a handsome,

dignified old house of mellowed red brick, with well-kept lawns

reaching down to the water’s edge.

“There’s Toad Hall,” said the Rat; “and that creek on the left, where

the notice-board says, ‘Private. No landing allowed,’ leads to his

boat-house, where we’ll leave the boat. The stables are over there to

the right. That’s the banqueting-hall you’re looking at now—very old,

that is. Toad is rather rich, you know, and this is really one of the

nicest houses in these parts, though we never admit as much to Toad.”

They glided up the creek, and the Mole shipped his sculls as they

passed into the shadow of a large boat-house. Here they saw many

handsome boats, slung from the cross beams or hauled up on a slip, but

none in the water; and the place had an unused and a deserted air.

The Rat looked around him. “I understand,” said he. “Boating is played

out. He’s tired of it, and done with it. I wonder what new fad he has

taken up now? Come along and let’s look him up. We shall hear all about

it quite soon enough.”

They disembarked, and strolled across the gay flower-decked lawns in

search of Toad, whom they presently happened upon resting in a wicker

garden-chair, with a pre-occupied expression of face, and a large map

spread out on his knees.

“Hooray!” he cried, jumping up on seeing them, “this is splendid!” He

shook the paws of both of them warmly, never waiting for an

introduction to the Mole. “How _kind_ of you!” he went on, dancing

round them. “I was just going to send a boat down the river for you,

Ratty, with strict orders that you were to be fetched up here at once,

whatever you were doing. I want you badly—both of you. Now what will

you take? Come inside and have something! You don’t know how lucky it

is, your turning up just now!”

“Let’s sit quiet a bit, Toady!” said the Rat, throwing himself into an

easy chair, while the Mole took another by the side of him and made

some civil remark about Toad’s “delightful residence.”

“Finest house on the whole river,” cried Toad boisterously. “Or

anywhere else, for that matter,” he could not help adding.

Here the Rat nudged the Mole. Unfortunately the Toad saw him do it, and

turned very red. There was a moment’s painful silence. Then Toad burst

out laughing. “All right, Ratty,” he said. “It’s only my way, you know.

And it’s not such a very bad house, is it? You know you rather like it

yourself. Now, look here. Let’s be sensible. You are the very animals I

wanted. You’ve got to help me. It’s most important!”

“It’s about your rowing, I suppose,” said the Rat, with an innocent

air. “You’re getting on fairly well, though you splash a good bit

still. With a great deal of patience, and any quantity of coaching, you

may——”

“O, pooh! boating!” interrupted the Toad, in great disgust. “Silly

boyish amusement. I’ve given that up _long_ ago. Sheer waste of time,

that’s what it is. It makes me downright sorry to see you fellows, who

ought to know better, spending all your energies in that aimless

manner. No, I’ve discovered the real thing, the only genuine occupation

for a life time. I propose to devote the remainder of mine to it, and

can only regret the wasted years that lie behind me, squandered in

trivialities. Come with me, dear Ratty, and your amiable friend also,

if he will be so very good, just as far as the stable-yard, and you

shall see what you shall see!”

He led the way to the stable-yard accordingly, the Rat following with a

most mistrustful expression; and there, drawn out of the coach house

into the open, they saw a gipsy caravan, shining with newness, painted

a canary-yellow picked out with green, and red wheels.

“There you are!” cried the Toad, straddling and expanding himself.

“There’s real life for you, embodied in that little cart. The open

road, the dusty highway, the heath, the common, the hedgerows, the

rolling downs! Camps, villages, towns, cities! Here to-day, up and off

to somewhere else to-morrow! Travel, change, interest, excitement! The

whole world before you, and a horizon that’s always changing! And mind!

this is the very finest cart of its sort that was ever built, without

any exception. Come inside and look at the arrangements. Planned ’em

all myself, I did!”

The Mole was tremendously interested and excited, and followed him

eagerly up the steps and into the interior of the caravan. The Rat only

snorted and thrust his hands deep into his pockets, remaining where he

was.

It was indeed very compact and comfortable. Little sleeping bunks—a

little table that folded up against the wall—a cooking-stove, lockers,

bookshelves, a bird-cage with a bird in it; and pots, pans, jugs and

kettles of every size and variety.

“All complete!” said the Toad triumphantly, pulling open a locker. “You

see—biscuits, potted lobster, sardines—everything you can possibly

want. Soda-water here—baccy there—letter-paper, bacon, jam, cards and

dominoes—you’ll find,” he continued, as they descended the steps again,

“you’ll find that nothing what ever has been forgotten, when we make

our start this afternoon.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the Rat slowly, as he chewed a straw, “but

did I overhear you say something about ‘_we_,’ and ‘_start_,’ and

‘_this afternoon?_’”

“Now, you dear good old Ratty,” said Toad, imploringly, “don’t begin

talking in that stiff and sniffy sort of way, because you know you’ve

_got_ to come. I can’t possibly manage without you, so please consider

it settled, and don’t argue—it’s the one thing I can’t stand. You

surely don’t mean to stick to your dull fusty old river all your life,

and just live in a hole in a bank, and _boat?_ I want to show you the

world! I’m going to make an _animal_ of you, my boy!”

“I don’t care,” said the Rat, doggedly. “I’m not coming, and that’s

flat. And I _am_ going to stick to my old river, _and_ live in a hole,

_and_ boat, as I’ve always done. And what’s more, Mole’s going to stick

to me and do as I do, aren’t you, Mole?”

“Of course I am,” said the Mole, loyally. “I’ll always stick to you,

Rat, and what you say is to be—has got to be. All the same, it sounds

as if it might have been—well, rather fun, you know!” he added,

wistfully. Poor Mole! The Life Adventurous was so new a thing to him,

and so thrilling; and this fresh aspect of it was so tempting; and he

had fallen in love at first sight with the canary-coloured cart and all

its little fitments.

The Rat saw what was passing in his mind, and wavered. He hated

disappointing people, and he was fond of the Mole, and would do almost

anything to oblige him. Toad was watching both of them closely.

“Come along in, and have some lunch,” he said, diplomatically, “and

we’ll talk it over. We needn’t decide anything in a hurry. Of course,

_I_ don’t really care. I only want to give pleasure to you fellows.

‘Live for others!’ That’s my motto in life.”

During luncheon—which was excellent, of course, as everything at Toad

Hall always was—the Toad simply let himself go. Disregarding the Rat,

he proceeded to play upon the inexperienced Mole as on a harp.

Naturally a voluble animal, and always mastered by his imagination, he

painted the prospects of the trip and the joys of the open life and the

roadside in such glowing colours that the Mole could hardly sit in his

chair for excitement. Somehow, it soon seemed taken for granted by all

three of them that the trip was a settled thing; and the Rat, though

still unconvinced in his mind, allowed his good-nature to over-ride his

personal objections. He could not bear to disappoint his two friends,

who were already deep in schemes and anticipations, planning out each

day’s separate occupation for several weeks ahead.

When they were quite ready, the now triumphant Toad led his companions

to the paddock and set them to capture the old grey horse, who, without

having been consulted, and to his own extreme annoyance, had been told

off by Toad for the dustiest job in this dusty expedition. He frankly

preferred the paddock, and took a deal of catching. Meantime Toad

packed the lockers still tighter with necessaries, and hung nosebags,

nets of onions, bundles of hay, and baskets from the bottom of the

cart. At last the horse was caught and harnessed, and they set off, all

talking at once, each animal either trudging by the side of the cart or

sitting on the shaft, as the humour took him. It was a golden

afternoon. The smell of the dust they kicked up was rich and

satisfying; out of thick orchards on either side the road, birds called

and whistled to them cheerily; good-natured wayfarers, passing them,

gave them “Good-day,” or stopped to say nice things about their

beautiful cart; and rabbits, sitting at their front doors in the

hedgerows, held up their fore-paws, and said, “O my! O my! O my!”

Late in the evening, tired and happy and miles from home, they drew up

on a remote common far from habitations, turned the horse loose to

graze, and ate their simple supper sitting on the grass by the side of

the cart. Toad talked big about all he was going to do in the days to

come, while stars grew fuller and larger all around them, and a yellow

moon, appearing suddenly and silently from nowhere in particular, came

to keep them company and listen to their talk. At last they turned in

to their little bunks in the cart; and Toad, kicking out his legs,

sleepily said, “Well, good night, you fellows! This is the real life

for a gentleman! Talk about your old river!”

“I _don’t_ talk about my river,” replied the patient Rat. “You _know_ I

don’t, Toad. But I _think_ about it,” he added pathetically, in a lower

tone: “I think about it—all the time!”

The Mole reached out from under his blanket, felt for the Rat’s paw in

the darkness, and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll do whatever you like,

Ratty,” he whispered. “Shall we run away to-morrow morning, quite

early—_very_ early—and go back to our dear old hole on the river?”

“No, no, we’ll see it out,” whispered back the Rat. “Thanks awfully,

but I ought to stick by Toad till this trip is ended. It wouldn’t be

safe for him to be left to himself. It won’t take very long. His fads

never do. Good night!”

The end was indeed nearer than even the Rat suspected.

After so much open air and excitement the Toad slept very soundly, and

no amount of shaking could rouse him out of bed next morning. So the

Mole and Rat turned to, quietly and manfully, and while the Rat saw to

the horse, and lit a fire, and cleaned last night’s cups and platters,

and got things ready for breakfast, the Mole trudged off to the nearest

village, a long way off, for milk and eggs and various necessaries the

Toad had, of course, forgotten to provide. The hard work had all been

done, and the two animals were resting, thoroughly exhausted, by the

time Toad appeared on the scene, fresh and gay, remarking what a

pleasant easy life it was they were all leading now, after the cares

and worries and fatigues of housekeeping at home.

They had a pleasant ramble that day over grassy downs and along narrow

by-lanes, and camped as before, on a common, only this time the two

guests took care that Toad should do his fair share of work. In

consequence, when the time came for starting next morning, Toad was by

no means so rapturous about the simplicity of the primitive life, and

indeed attempted to resume his place in his bunk, whence he was hauled

by force. Their way lay, as before, across country by narrow lanes, and

it was not till the afternoon that they came out on the high-road,

their first high-road; and there disaster, fleet and unforeseen, sprang

out on them—disaster momentous indeed to their expedition, but simply

overwhelming in its effect on the after-career of Toad.

They were strolling along the high-road easily, the Mole by the horse’s

head, talking to him, since the horse had complained that he was being

frightfully left out of it, and nobody considered him in the least; the

Toad and the Water Rat walking behind the cart talking together—at

least Toad was talking, and Rat was saying at intervals, “Yes,

precisely; and what did _you_ say to _him?_”—and thinking all the time

of something very different, when far behind them they heard a faint

warning hum; like the drone of a distant bee. Glancing back, they saw a

small cloud of dust, with a dark centre of energy, advancing on them at

incredible speed, while from out the dust a faint “Poop-poop!” wailed

like an uneasy animal in pain. Hardly regarding it, they turned to

resume their conversation, when in an instant (as it seemed) the

peaceful scene was changed, and with a blast of wind and a whirl of

sound that made them jump for the nearest ditch, It was on them! The

“Poop-poop” rang with a brazen shout in their ears, they had a moment’s

glimpse of an interior of glittering plate-glass and rich morocco, and

the magnificent motor-car, immense, breath-snatching, passionate, with

its pilot tense and hugging his wheel, possessed all earth and air for

the fraction of a second, flung an enveloping cloud of dust that

blinded and enwrapped them utterly, and then dwindled to a speck in the

far distance, changed back into a droning bee once more.

The old grey horse, dreaming, as he plodded along, of his quiet

paddock, in a new raw situation such as this simply abandoned himself

to his natural emotions. Rearing, plunging, backing steadily, in spite

of all the Mole’s efforts at his head, and all the Mole’s lively

language directed at his better feelings, he drove the cart backwards

towards the deep ditch at the side of the road. It wavered an

instant—then there was a heartrending crash—and the canary-coloured

cart, their pride and their joy, lay on its side in the ditch, an

irredeemable wreck.

The Rat danced up and down in the road, simply transported with

passion. “You villains!” he shouted, shaking both fists, “You

scoundrels, you highwaymen, you—you—roadhogs!—I’ll have the law of you!

I’ll report you! I’ll take you through all the Courts!” His

home-sickness had quite slipped away from him, and for the moment he

was the skipper of the canary-coloured vessel driven on a shoal by the

reckless jockeying of rival mariners, and he was trying to recollect

all the fine and biting things he used to say to masters of

steam-launches when their wash, as they drove too near the bank, used

to flood his parlour-carpet at home.

Toad sat straight down in the middle of the dusty road, his legs

stretched out before him, and stared fixedly in the direction of the

disappearing motor-car. He breathed short, his face wore a placid

satisfied expression, and at intervals he faintly murmured “Poop-poop!”

The Mole was busy trying to quiet the horse, which he succeeded in

doing after a time. Then he went to look at the cart, on its side in

the ditch. It was indeed a sorry sight. Panels and windows smashed,

axles hopelessly bent, one wheel off, sardine-tins scattered over the

wide world, and the bird in the bird-cage sobbing pitifully and calling

to be let out.

The Rat came to help him, but their united efforts were not sufficient

to right the cart. “Hi! Toad!” they cried. “Come and bear a hand, can’t

you!”

The Toad never answered a word, or budged from his seat in the road; so

they went to see what was the matter with him. They found him in a sort

of a trance, a happy smile on his face, his eyes still fixed on the

dusty wake of their destroyer. At intervals he was still heard to

murmur “Poop-poop!”

The Rat shook him by the shoulder. “Are you coming to help us, Toad?”

he demanded sternly.

“Glorious, stirring sight!” murmured Toad, never offering to move. “The

poetry of motion! The _real_ way to travel! The _only_ way to travel!

Here to-day—in next week to-morrow! Villages skipped, towns and cities

jumped—always somebody else’s horizon! O bliss! O poop-poop! O my! O

my!”

“O _stop_ being an ass, Toad!” cried the Mole despairingly.

“And to think I never _knew!_” went on the Toad in a dreamy monotone.

“All those wasted years that lie behind me, I never knew, never even

_dreamt!_ But _now_—but now that I know, now that I fully realise! O

what a flowery track lies spread before me, henceforth! What

dust-clouds shall spring up behind me as I speed on my reckless way!

What carts I shall fling carelessly into the ditch in the wake of my

magnificent onset! Horrid little carts—common carts—canary-coloured

carts!”

“What are we to do with him?” asked the Mole of the Water Rat.

“Nothing at all,” replied the Rat firmly. “Because there is really

nothing to be done. You see, I know him from of old. He is now

possessed. He has got a new craze, and it always takes him that way, in

its first stage. He’ll continue like that for days now, like an animal

walking in a happy dream, quite useless for all practical purposes.

Never mind him. Let’s go and see what there is to be done about the

cart.”

A careful inspection showed them that, even if they succeeded in

righting it by themselves, the cart would travel no longer. The axles

were in a hopeless state, and the missing wheel was shattered into

pieces.

The Rat knotted the horse’s reins over his back and took him by the

head, carrying the bird cage and its hysterical occupant in the other

hand. “Come on!” he said grimly to the Mole. “It’s five or six miles to

the nearest town, and we shall just have to walk it. The sooner we make

a start the better.”

“But what about Toad?” asked the Mole anxiously, as they set off

together. “We can’t leave him here, sitting in the middle of the road

by himself, in the distracted state he’s in! It’s not safe. Supposing

another Thing were to come along?”

“O, _bother_ Toad,” said the Rat savagely; “I’ve done with him!”

They had not proceeded very far on their way, however, when there was a

pattering of feet behind them, and Toad caught them up and thrust a paw

inside the elbow of each of them; still breathing short and staring

into vacancy.

“Now, look here, Toad!” said the Rat sharply: “as soon as we get to the

town, you’ll have to go straight to the police-station, and see if they

know anything about that motor-car and who it belongs to, and lodge a

complaint against it. And then you’ll have to go to a blacksmith’s or a

wheelwright’s and arrange for the cart to be fetched and mended and put

to rights. It’ll take time, but it’s not quite a hopeless smash.

Meanwhile, the Mole and I will go to an inn and find comfortable rooms

where we can stay till the cart’s ready, and till your nerves have

recovered their shock.”

“Police-station! Complaint!” murmured Toad dreamily. “Me _complain_ of

that beautiful, that heavenly vision that has been vouchsafed me!

_Mend_ the _cart!_ I’ve done with carts for ever. I never want to see

the cart, or to hear of it, again. O, Ratty! You can’t think how

obliged I am to you for consenting to come on this trip! I wouldn’t

have gone without you, and then I might never have seen that—that swan,

that sunbeam, that thunderbolt! I might never have heard that

entrancing sound, or smelt that bewitching smell! I owe it all to you,

my best of friends!”

The Rat turned from him in despair. “You see what it is?” he said to

the Mole, addressing him across Toad’s head: “He’s quite hopeless. I

give it up—when we get to the town we’ll go to the railway station, and

with luck we may pick up a train there that’ll get us back to riverbank

to-night. And if ever you catch me going a-pleasuring with this

provoking animal again!”—He snorted, and during the rest of that weary

trudge addressed his remarks exclusively to Mole.

On reaching the town they went straight to the station and deposited

Toad in the second-class waiting-room, giving a porter twopence to keep

a strict eye on him. They then left the horse at an inn stable, and

gave what directions they could about the cart and its contents.

Eventually, a slow train having landed them at a station not very far

from Toad Hall, they escorted the spell-bound, sleep-walking Toad to

his door, put him inside it, and instructed his housekeeper to feed

him, undress him, and put him to bed. Then they got out their boat from

the boat-house, sculled down the river home, and at a very late hour

sat down to supper in their own cosy riverside parlour, to the Rat’s

great joy and contentment.

The following evening the Mole, who had risen late and taken things

very easy all day, was sitting on the bank fishing, when the Rat, who

had been looking up his friends and gossiping, came strolling along to

find him. “Heard the news?” he said. “There’s nothing else being talked

about, all along the river bank. Toad went up to Town by an early train

this morning. And he has ordered a large and very expensive motor-car.”

III.

THE WILD WOOD

The Mole had long wanted to make the acquaintance of the Badger. He

seemed, by all accounts, to be such an important personage and, though

rarely visible, to make his unseen influence felt by everybody about

the place. But whenever the Mole mentioned his wish to the Water Rat he

always found himself put off. “It’s all right,” the Rat would say.

“Badger’ll turn up some day or other—he’s always turning up—and then

I’ll introduce you. The best of fellows! But you must not only take him

_as_ you find him, but _when_ you find him.”

“Couldn’t you ask him here dinner or something?” said the Mole.

“He wouldn’t come,” replied the Rat simply. “Badger hates Society, and

invitations, and dinner, and all that sort of thing.”

“Well, then, supposing we go and call on _him?_” suggested the Mole.

“O, I’m sure he wouldn’t like that at _all_,” said the Rat, quite

alarmed. “He’s so very shy, he’d be sure to be offended. I’ve never

even ventured to call on him at his own home myself, though I know him

so well. Besides, we can’t. It’s quite out of the question, because he

lives in the very middle of the Wild Wood.”

“Well, supposing he does,” said the Mole. “You told me the Wild Wood

was all right, you know.”

“O, I know, I know, so it is,” replied the Rat evasively. “But I think

we won’t go there just now. Not _just_ yet. It’s a long way, and he

wouldn’t be at home at this time of year anyhow, and he’ll be coming

along some day, if you’ll wait quietly.”

The Mole had to be content with this. But the Badger never came along,

and every day brought its amusements, and it was not till summer was

long over, and cold and frost and miry ways kept them much indoors, and

the swollen river raced past outside their windows with a speed that

mocked at boating of any sort or kind, that he found his thoughts

dwelling again with much persistence on the solitary grey Badger, who

lived his own life by himself, in his hole in the middle of the Wild

Wood.

In the winter time the Rat slept a great deal, retiring early and

rising late. During his short day he sometimes scribbled poetry or did

other small domestic jobs about the house; and, of course, there were

always animals dropping in for a chat, and consequently there was a

good deal of story-telling and comparing notes on the past summer and

all its doings.

Such a rich chapter it had been, when one came to look back on it all!

With illustrations so numerous and so very highly coloured! The pageant

of the river bank had marched steadily along, unfolding itself in

scene-pictures that succeeded each other in stately procession. Purple

loosestrife arrived early, shaking luxuriant tangled locks along the

edge of the mirror whence its own face laughed back at it. Willow-herb,

tender and wistful, like a pink sunset cloud, was not slow to follow.

Comfrey, the purple hand-in-hand with the white, crept forth to take

its place in the line; and at last one morning the diffident and

delaying dog-rose stepped delicately on the stage, and one knew, as if

string-music had announced it in stately chords that strayed into a

gavotte, that June at last was here. One member of the company was

still awaited; the shepherd-boy for the nymphs to woo, the knight for

whom the ladies waited at the window, the prince that was to kiss the

sleeping summer back to life and love. But when meadow-sweet, debonair

and odorous in amber jerkin, moved graciously to his place in the

group, then the play was ready to begin.

And what a play it had been! Drowsy animals, snug in their holes while

wind and rain were battering at their doors, recalled still keen

mornings, an hour before sunrise, when the white mist, as yet

undispersed, clung closely along the surface of the water; then the

shock of the early plunge, the scamper along the bank, and the radiant

transformation of earth, air, and water, when suddenly the sun was with

them again, and grey was gold and colour was born and sprang out of the

earth once more. They recalled the languorous siesta of hot mid-day,

deep in green undergrowth, the sun striking through in tiny golden

shafts and spots; the boating and bathing of the afternoon, the rambles

along dusty lanes and through yellow cornfields; and the long, cool

evening at last, when so many threads were gathered up, so many

friendships rounded, and so many adventures planned for the morrow.

There was plenty to talk about on those short winter days when the

animals found themselves round the fire; still, the Mole had a good

deal of spare time on his hands, and so one afternoon, when the Rat in

his arm-chair before the blaze was alternately dozing and trying over

rhymes that wouldn’t fit, he formed the resolution to go out by himself

and explore the Wild Wood, and perhaps strike up an acquaintance with

Mr. Badger.

It was a cold still afternoon with a hard steely sky overhead, when he

slipped out of the warm parlour into the open air. The country lay bare

and entirely leafless around him, and he thought that he had never seen

so far and so intimately into the insides of things as on that winter

day when Nature was deep in her annual slumber and seemed to have

kicked the clothes off. Copses, dells, quarries and all hidden places,

which had been mysterious mines for exploration in leafy summer, now

exposed themselves and their secrets pathetically, and seemed to ask

him to overlook their shabby poverty for a while, till they could riot

in rich masquerade as before, and trick and entice him with the old

deceptions. It was pitiful in a way, and yet cheering—even

exhilarating. He was glad that he liked the country undecorated, hard,

and stripped of its finery. He had got down to the bare bones of it,

and they were fine and strong and simple. He did not want the warm

clover and the play of seeding grasses; the screens of quickset, the

billowy drapery of beech and elm seemed best away; and with great

cheerfulness of spirit he pushed on towards the Wild Wood, which lay

before him low and threatening, like a black reef in some still

southern sea.

There was nothing to alarm him at first entry. Twigs crackled under his

feet, logs tripped him, funguses on stumps resembled caricatures, and

startled him for the moment by their likeness to something familiar and

far away; but that was all fun, and exciting. It led him on, and he

penetrated to where the light was less, and trees crouched nearer and

nearer, and holes made ugly mouths at him on either side.

Everything was very still now. The dusk advanced on him steadily,

rapidly, gathering in behind and before; and the light seemed to be

draining away like flood-water.

Then the faces began.

It was over his shoulder, and indistinctly, that he first thought he

saw a face; a little evil wedge-shaped face, looking out at him from a

hole. When he turned and confronted it, the thing had vanished.

He quickened his pace, telling himself cheerfully not to begin

imagining things, or there would be simply no end to it. He passed

another hole, and another, and another; and then—yes!—no!—yes!

certainly a little narrow face, with hard eyes, had flashed up for an

instant from a hole, and was gone. He hesitated—braced himself up for

an effort and strode on. Then suddenly, and as if it had been so all

the time, every hole, far and near, and there were hundreds of them,

seemed to possess its face, coming and going rapidly, all fixing on him

glances of malice and hatred: all hard-eyed and evil and sharp.

If he could only get away from the holes in the banks, he thought,

there would be no more faces. He swung off the path and plunged into

the untrodden places of the wood.

Then the whistling began.

Very faint and shrill it was, and far behind him, when first he heard

it; but somehow it made him hurry forward. Then, still very faint and

shrill, it sounded far ahead of him, and made him hesitate and want to

go back. As he halted in indecision it broke out on either side, and

seemed to be caught up and passed on throughout the whole length of the

wood to its farthest limit. They were up and alert and ready,

evidently, whoever they were! And he—he was alone, and unarmed, and far

from any help; and the night was closing in.

Then the pattering began.

He thought it was only falling leaves at first, so slight and delicate

was the sound of it. Then as it grew it took a regular rhythm, and he

knew it for nothing else but the pat-pat-pat of little feet still a

very long way off. Was it in front or behind? It seemed to be first

one, and then the other, then both. It grew and it multiplied, till

from every quarter as he listened anxiously, leaning this way and that,

it seemed to be closing in on him. As he stood still to hearken, a

rabbit came running hard towards him through the trees. He waited,

expecting it to slacken pace, or to swerve from him into a different

course. Instead, the animal almost brushed him as it dashed past, his

face set and hard, his eyes staring. “Get out of this, you fool, get

out!” the Mole heard him mutter as he swung round a stump and

disappeared down a friendly burrow.

The pattering increased till it sounded like sudden hail on the dry

leaf-carpet spread around him. The whole wood seemed running now,

running hard, hunting, chasing, closing in round something or—somebody?

In panic, he began to run too, aimlessly, he knew not whither. He ran

up against things, he fell over things and into things, he darted under

things and dodged round things. At last he took refuge in the deep dark

hollow of an old beech tree, which offered shelter, concealment—perhaps

even safety, but who could tell? Anyhow, he was too tired to run any

further, and could only snuggle down into the dry leaves which had

drifted into the hollow and hope he was safe for a time. And as he lay

there panting and trembling, and listened to the whistlings and the

patterings outside, he knew it at last, in all its fullness, that dread

thing which other little dwellers in field and hedgerow had encountered

here, and known as their darkest moment—that thing which the Rat had

vainly tried to shield him from—the Terror of the Wild Wood!

Meantime the Rat, warm and comfortable, dozed by his fireside. His

paper of half-finished verses slipped from his knee, his head fell

back, his mouth opened, and he wandered by the verdant banks of

dream-rivers. Then a coal slipped, the fire crackled and sent up a

spurt of flame, and he woke with a start. Remembering what he had been

engaged upon, he reached down to the floor for his verses, pored over

them for a minute, and then looked round for the Mole to ask him if he

knew a good rhyme for something or other.

But the Mole was not there.

He listened for a time. The house seemed very quiet.

Then he called “Moly!” several times, and, receiving no answer, got up

and went out into the hall.

The Mole’s cap was missing from its accustomed peg. His goloshes, which

always lay by the umbrella-stand, were also gone.

The Rat left the house, and carefully examined the muddy surface of the

ground outside, hoping to find the Mole’s tracks. There they were, sure

enough. The goloshes were new, just bought for the winter, and the

pimples on their soles were fresh and sharp. He could see the imprints

of them in the mud, running along straight and purposeful, leading

direct to the Wild Wood.

The Rat looked very grave, and stood in deep thought for a minute or

two. Then he re-entered the house, strapped a belt round his waist,

shoved a brace of pistols into it, took up a stout cudgel that stood in

a corner of the hall, and set off for the Wild Wood at a smart pace.

It was already getting towards dusk when he reached the first fringe of

trees and plunged without hesitation into the wood, looking anxiously

on either side for any sign of his friend. Here and there wicked little

faces popped out of holes, but vanished immediately at sight of the

valorous animal, his pistols, and the great ugly cudgel in his grasp;

and the whistling and pattering, which he had heard quite plainly on

his first entry, died away and ceased, and all was very still. He made

his way manfully through the length of the wood, to its furthest edge;

then, forsaking all paths, he set himself to traverse it, laboriously

working over the whole ground, and all the time calling out cheerfully,

“Moly, Moly, Moly! Where are you? It’s me—it’s old Rat!”

He had patiently hunted through the wood for an hour or more, when at

last to his joy he heard a little answering cry. Guiding himself by the

sound, he made his way through the gathering darkness to the foot of an

old beech tree, with a hole in it, and from out of the hole came a

feeble voice, saying “Ratty! Is that really you?”

The Rat crept into the hollow, and there he found the Mole, exhausted

and still trembling. “O Rat!” he cried, “I’ve been so frightened, you

can’t think!”

“O, I quite understand,” said the Rat soothingly. “You shouldn’t really

have gone and done it, Mole. I did my best to keep you from it. We

river-bankers, we hardly ever come here by ourselves. If we have to

come, we come in couples, at least; then we’re generally all right.

Besides, there are a hundred things one has to know, which we

understand all about and you don’t, as yet. I mean passwords, and

signs, and sayings which have power and effect, and plants you carry in

your pocket, and verses you repeat, and dodges and tricks you practise;

all simple enough when you know them, but they’ve got to be known if

you’re small, or you’ll find yourself in trouble. Of course if you were

Badger or Otter, it would be quite another matter.”

“Surely the brave Mr. Toad wouldn’t mind coming here by himself, would

he?” inquired the Mole.

“Old Toad?” said the Rat, laughing heartily. “He wouldn’t show his face

here alone, not for a whole hatful of golden guineas, Toad wouldn’t.”

The Mole was greatly cheered by the sound of the Rat’s careless

laughter, as well as by the sight of his stick and his gleaming

pistols, and he stopped shivering and began to feel bolder and more

himself again.

“Now then,” said the Rat presently, “we really must pull ourselves

together and make a start for home while there’s still a little light

left. It will never do to spend the night here, you understand. Too

cold, for one thing.”

“Dear Ratty,” said the poor Mole, “I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’m simply

dead beat and that’s a solid fact. You _must_ let me rest here a while

longer, and get my strength back, if I’m to get home at all.”

“O, all right,” said the good-natured Rat, “rest away. It’s pretty

nearly pitch dark now, anyhow; and there ought to be a bit of a moon

later.”

So the Mole got well into the dry leaves and stretched himself out, and

presently dropped off into sleep, though of a broken and troubled sort;

while the Rat covered himself up, too, as best he might, for warmth,

and lay patiently waiting, with a pistol in his paw.

When at last the Mole woke up, much refreshed and in his usual spirits,

the Rat said, “Now then! I’ll just take a look outside and see if

everything’s quiet, and then we really must be off.”

He went to the entrance of their retreat and put his head out. Then the

Mole heard him saying quietly to himself, “Hullo! hullo! here—is—a—go!”

“What’s up, Ratty?” asked the Mole.

“_Snow_ is up,” replied the Rat briefly; “or rather, _down_. It’s

snowing hard.”

The Mole came and crouched beside him, and, looking out, saw the wood

that had been so dreadful to him in quite a changed aspect. Holes,

hollows, pools, pitfalls, and other black menaces to the wayfarer were

vanishing fast, and a gleaming carpet of faery was springing up

everywhere, that looked too delicate to be trodden upon by rough feet.

A fine powder filled the air and caressed the cheek with a tingle in

its touch, and the black boles of the trees showed up in a light that

seemed to come from below.

“Well, well, it can’t be helped,” said the Rat, after pondering. “We

must make a start, and take our chance, I suppose. The worst of it is,

I don’t exactly know where we are. And now this snow makes everything

look so very different.”

It did indeed. The Mole would not have known that it was the same wood.

However, they set out bravely, and took the line that seemed most

promising, holding on to each other and pretending with invincible

cheerfulness that they recognized an old friend in every fresh tree

that grimly and silently greeted them, or saw openings, gaps, or paths

with a familiar turn in them, in the monotony of white space and black

tree-trunks that refused to vary.

An hour or two later—they had lost all count of time—they pulled up,

dispirited, weary, and hopelessly at sea, and sat down on a fallen

tree-trunk to recover their breath and consider what was to be done.

They were aching with fatigue and bruised with tumbles; they had fallen

into several holes and got wet through; the snow was getting so deep

that they could hardly drag their little legs through it, and the trees

were thicker and more like each other than ever. There seemed to be no

end to this wood, and no beginning, and no difference in it, and, worst

of all, no way out.

“We can’t sit here very long,” said the Rat. “We shall have to make

another push for it, and do something or other. The cold is too awful

for anything, and the snow will soon be too deep for us to wade

through.” He peered about him and considered. “Look here,” he went on,

“this is what occurs to me. There’s a sort of dell down here in front

of us, where the ground seems all hilly and humpy and hummocky. We’ll

make our way down into that, and try and find some sort of shelter, a

cave or hole with a dry floor to it, out of the snow and the wind, and

there we’ll have a good rest before we try again, for we’re both of us

pretty dead beat. Besides, the snow may leave off, or something may

turn up.”

So once more they got on their feet, and struggled down into the dell,

where they hunted about for a cave or some corner that was dry and a

protection from the keen wind and the whirling snow. They were

investigating one of the hummocky bits the Rat had spoken of, when

suddenly the Mole tripped up and fell forward on his face with a

squeal.

“O my leg!” he cried. “O my poor shin!” and he sat up on the snow and

nursed his leg in both his front paws.

“Poor old Mole!” said the Rat kindly.

“You don’t seem to be having much luck to-day, do you? Let’s have a

look at the leg. Yes,” he went on, going down on his knees to look,

“you’ve cut your shin, sure enough. Wait till I get at my handkerchief,

and I’ll tie it up for you.”

“I must have tripped over a hidden branch or a stump,” said the Mole

miserably. “O, my! O, my!”

“It’s a very clean cut,” said the Rat, examining it again attentively.

“That was never done by a branch or a stump. Looks as if it was made by

a sharp edge of something in metal. Funny!” He pondered awhile, and

examined the humps and slopes that surrounded them.

“Well, never mind what done it,” said the Mole, forgetting his grammar

in his pain. “It hurts just the same, whatever done it.”

But the Rat, after carefully tying up the leg with his handkerchief,

had left him and was busy scraping in the snow. He scratched and

shovelled and explored, all four legs working busily, while the Mole

waited impatiently, remarking at intervals, “O, _come_ on, Rat!”

Suddenly the Rat cried “Hooray!” and then

“Hooray-oo-ray-oo-ray-oo-ray!” and fell to executing a feeble jig in

the snow.

“What _have_ you found, Ratty?” asked the Mole, still nursing his leg.

“Come and see!” said the delighted Rat, as he jigged on.

The Mole hobbled up to the spot and had a good look.

“Well,” he said at last, slowly, “I SEE it right enough. Seen the same

sort of thing before, lots of times. Familiar object, I call it. A

door-scraper! Well, what of it? Why dance jigs around a door-scraper?”

“But don’t you see what it _means_, you—you dull-witted animal?” cried

the Rat impatiently.

“Of course I see what it means,” replied the Mole. “It simply means

that some VERY careless and forgetful person has left his door-scraper

lying about in the middle of the Wild Wood, _just_ where it’s _sure_ to

trip _everybody_ up. Very thoughtless of him, I call it. When I get

home I shall go and complain about it to—to somebody or other, see if I

don’t!”

“O, dear! O, dear!” cried the Rat, in despair at his obtuseness. “Here,

stop arguing and come and scrape!” And he set to work again and made

the snow fly in all directions around him.

After some further toil his efforts were rewarded, and a very shabby

door-mat lay exposed to view.

“There, what did I tell you?” exclaimed the Rat in great triumph.

“Absolutely nothing whatever,” replied the Mole, with perfect

truthfulness. “Well now,” he went on, “you seem to have found another

piece of domestic litter, done for and thrown away, and I suppose

you’re perfectly happy. Better go ahead and dance your jig round that

if you’ve got to, and get it over, and then perhaps we can go on and

not waste any more time over rubbish-heaps. Can we EAT a doormat? or

sleep under a door-mat? Or sit on a door-mat and sledge home over the

snow on it, you exasperating rodent?”

“Do—you—mean—to—say,” cried the excited Rat, “that this door-mat

doesn’t _tell_ you anything?”

“Really, Rat,” said the Mole, quite pettishly, “I think we’d had enough

of this folly. Who ever heard of a door-mat _telling_ anyone anything?

They simply don’t do it. They are not that sort at all. Door-mats know

their place.”

“Now look here, you—you thick-headed beast,” replied the Rat, really

angry, “this must stop. Not another word, but scrape—scrape and scratch

and dig and hunt round, especially on the sides of the hummocks, if you

want to sleep dry and warm to-night, for it’s our last chance!”

The Rat attacked a snow-bank beside them with ardour, probing with his

cudgel everywhere and then digging with fury; and the Mole scraped

busily too, more to oblige the Rat than for any other reason, for his

opinion was that his friend was getting light-headed.

Some ten minutes’ hard work, and the point of the Rat’s cudgel struck

something that sounded hollow. He worked till he could get a paw

through and feel; then called the Mole to come and help him. Hard at it

went the two animals, till at last the result of their labours stood

full in view of the astonished and hitherto incredulous Mole.

In the side of what had seemed to be a snow-bank stood a solid-looking

little door, painted a dark green. An iron bell-pull hung by the side,

and below it, on a small brass plate, neatly engraved in square capital

letters, they could read by the aid of moonlight

MR. BADGER.

The Mole fell backwards on the snow from sheer surprise and delight.

“Rat!” he cried in penitence, “you’re a wonder! A real wonder, that’s

what you are. I see it all now! You argued it out, step by step, in

that wise head of yours, from the very moment that I fell and cut my

shin, and you looked at the cut, and at once your majestic mind said to

itself, ‘Door-scraper!’ And then you turned to and found the very

door-scraper that done it! Did you stop there? No. Some people would

have been quite satisfied; but not you. Your intellect went on working.

‘Let me only just find a door-mat,’ says you to yourself, ‘and my

theory is proved!’ And of course you found your door-mat. You’re so

clever, I believe you could find anything you liked. ‘Now,’ says you,

‘that door exists, as plain as if I saw it. There’s nothing else

remains to be done but to find it!’ Well, I’ve read about that sort of

thing in books, but I’ve never come across it before in real life. You

ought to go where you’ll be properly appreciated. You’re simply wasted

here, among us fellows. If I only had your head, Ratty——”

“But as you haven’t,” interrupted the Rat, rather unkindly, “I suppose

you’re going to sit on the snow all night and _talk?_ Get up at once

and hang on to that bell-pull you see there, and ring hard, as hard as

you can, while I hammer!”

While the Rat attacked the door with his stick, the Mole sprang up at

the bell-pull, clutched it and swung there, both feet well off the

ground, and from quite a long way off they could faintly hear a

deep-toned bell respond.

IV.

MR. BADGER

THEY waited patiently for what seemed a very long time, stamping in the

snow to keep their feet warm. At last they heard the sound of slow

shuffling footsteps approaching the door from the inside. It seemed, as

the Mole remarked to the Rat, like some one walking in carpet slippers

that were too large for him and down at heel; which was intelligent of

Mole, because that was exactly what it was.

There was the noise of a bolt shot back, and the door opened a few

inches, enough to show a long snout and a pair of sleepy blinking eyes.

“Now, the _very_ next time this happens,” said a gruff and suspicious

voice, “I shall be exceedingly angry. Who is it _this_ time, disturbing

people on such a night? Speak up!”

“Oh, Badger,” cried the Rat, “let us in, please. It’s me, Rat, and my

friend Mole, and we’ve lost our way in the snow.”

“What, Ratty, my dear little man!” exclaimed the Badger, in quite a

different voice. “Come along in, both of you, at once. Why, you must be

perished. Well I never! Lost in the snow! And in the Wild Wood, too,

and at this time of night! But come in with you.”

The two animals tumbled over each other in their eagerness to get

inside, and heard the door shut behind them with great joy and relief.

The Badger, who wore a long dressing-gown, and whose slippers were

indeed very down at heel, carried a flat candlestick in his paw and had

probably been on his way to bed when their summons sounded. He looked

kindly down on them and patted both their heads. “This is not the sort

of night for small animals to be out,” he said paternally. “I’m afraid

you’ve been up to some of your pranks again, Ratty. But come along;

come into the kitchen. There’s a first-rate fire there, and supper and

everything.”

He shuffled on in front of them, carrying the light, and they followed

him, nudging each other in an anticipating sort of way, down a long,

gloomy, and, to tell the truth, decidedly shabby passage, into a sort

of a central hall; out of which they could dimly see other long

tunnel-like passages branching, passages mysterious and without

apparent end. But there were doors in the hall as well—stout oaken

comfortable-looking doors. One of these the Badger flung open, and at

once they found themselves in all the glow and warmth of a large

fire-lit kitchen.

The floor was well-worn red brick, and on the wide hearth burnt a fire

of logs, between two attractive chimney-corners tucked away in the

wall, well out of any suspicion of draught. A couple of high-backed

settles, facing each other on either side of the fire, gave further

sitting accommodations for the sociably disposed. In the middle of the

room stood a long table of plain boards placed on trestles, with

benches down each side. At one end of it, where an arm-chair stood

pushed back, were spread the remains of the Badger’s plain but ample

supper. Rows of spotless plates winked from the shelves of the dresser

at the far end of the room, and from the rafters overhead hung hams,

bundles of dried herbs, nets of onions, and baskets of eggs. It seemed

a place where heroes could fitly 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. The ruddy brick floor smiled up at the

smoky ceiling; the oaken settles, shiny with long wear, exchanged

cheerful glances with each other; plates on the dresser grinned at pots

on the shelf, and the merry firelight flickered and played over

everything without distinction.

The kindly Badger thrust them down on a settle to toast themselves at

the fire, and bade them remove their wet coats and boots. Then he

fetched them dressing-gowns and slippers, and himself bathed the Mole’s

shin with warm water and mended the cut with sticking-plaster till the

whole thing was just as good as new, if not better. In the embracing

light and warmth, warm and dry at last, with weary legs propped up in

front of them, and a suggestive clink of plates being arranged on the

table behind, it seemed to the storm-driven animals, now in safe

anchorage, that the cold and trackless Wild Wood just left outside was

miles and miles away, and all that they had suffered in it a

half-forgotten dream.

When at last they were thoroughly toasted, the Badger summoned them to

the table, where he had been busy laying a repast. They had felt pretty

hungry before, but when they actually saw at last the supper that was

spread for them, really it seemed only a question of what they should

attack first where all was so attractive, and whether the other things

would obligingly wait for them till they had time to give them

attention. Conversation was impossible for a long time; and when it was

slowly resumed, it was that regrettable sort of conversation that

results from talking with your mouth full. The Badger did not mind that

sort of thing at all, nor did he take any notice of elbows on the

table, or everybody speaking at once. As he did not go into Society

himself, he had got an idea that these things belonged to the things

that didn’t really matter. (We know of course that he was wrong, and

took too narrow a view; because they do matter very much, though it

would take too long to explain why.) He sat in his arm-chair at the

head of the table, and nodded gravely at intervals as the animals told

their story; and he did not seem surprised or shocked at anything, and

he never said, “I told you so,” or, “Just what I always said,” or

remarked that they ought to have done so-and-so, or ought not to have

done something else. The Mole began to feel very friendly towards him.

When supper was really finished at last, and each animal felt that his

skin was now as tight as was decently safe, and that by this time he

didn’t care a hang for anybody or anything, they gathered round the

glowing embers of the great wood fire, and thought how jolly it was to

be sitting up _so_ late, and _so_ independent, and _so_ full; and after

they had chatted for a time about things in general, the Badger said

heartily, “Now then! tell us the news from your part of the world.

How’s old Toad going on?”

“Oh, from bad to worse,” said the Rat gravely, while the Mole, cocked

up on a settle and basking in the firelight, his heels higher than his

head, tried to look properly mournful. “Another smash-up only last

week, and a bad one. You see, he will insist on driving himself, and

he’s hopelessly incapable. If he’d only employ a decent, steady,

well-trained animal, pay him good wages, and leave everything to him,

he’d get on all right. But no; he’s convinced he’s a heaven-born

driver, and nobody can teach him anything; and all the rest follows.”

“How many has he had?” inquired the Badger gloomily.

“Smashes, or machines?” asked the Rat. “Oh, well, after all, it’s the

same thing—with Toad. This is the seventh. As for the others—you know

that coach-house of his? Well, it’s piled up—literally piled up to the

roof—with fragments of motor-cars, none of them bigger than your hat!

That accounts for the other six—so far as they can be accounted for.”

“He’s been in hospital three times,” put in the Mole; “and as for the

fines he’s had to pay, it’s simply awful to think of.”

“Yes, and that’s part of the trouble,” continued the Rat. “Toad’s rich,

we all know; but he’s not a millionaire. And he’s a hopelessly bad

driver, and quite regardless of law and order. Killed or ruined—it’s

got to be one of the two things, sooner or later. Badger! we’re his

friends—oughtn’t we to do something?”

The Badger went through a bit of hard thinking. “Now look here!” he

said at last, rather severely; “of course you know I can’t do anything

_now?_”

His two friends assented, quite understanding his point. No animal,

according to the rules of animal-etiquette, is ever expected to do

anything strenuous, or heroic, or even moderately active during the

off-season of winter. All are sleepy—some actually asleep. All are

weather-bound, more or less; and all are resting from arduous days and

nights, during which every muscle in them has been severely tested, and

every energy kept at full stretch.

“Very well then!” continued the Badger. “_But_, when once the year has

really turned, and the nights are shorter, and halfway through them one

rouses and feels fidgety and wanting to be up and doing by sunrise, if

not before—_you_ know!——”

Both animals nodded gravely. _They_ knew!

“Well, _then_,” went on the Badger, “we—that is, you and me and our

friend the Mole here—we’ll take Toad seriously in hand. We’ll stand no

nonsense whatever. We’ll bring him back to reason, by force if need be.

We’ll _make_ him be a sensible Toad. We’ll—you’re asleep, Rat!”

“Not me!” said the Rat, waking up with a jerk.

“He’s been asleep two or three times since supper,” said the Mole,

laughing. He himself was feeling quite wakeful and even lively, though

he didn’t know why. The reason was, of course, that he being naturally

an underground animal by birth and breeding, the situation of Badger’s

house exactly suited him and made him feel at home; while the Rat, who

slept every night in a bedroom the windows of which opened on a breezy

river, naturally felt the atmosphere still and oppressive.

“Well, it’s time we were all in bed,” said the Badger, getting up and

fetching flat candlesticks. “Come along, you two, and I’ll show you

your quarters. And take your time tomorrow morning—breakfast at any

hour you please!”

He conducted the two animals to a long room that seemed half bedchamber

and half loft. The Badger’s winter stores, which indeed were visible

everywhere, took up half the room—piles of apples, turnips, and

potatoes, baskets full of nuts, and jars of honey; but the two little

white beds on the remainder of the floor looked soft and inviting, and

the linen on them, though coarse, was clean and smelt beautifully of

lavender; and the Mole and the Water Rat, shaking off their garments in

some thirty seconds, tumbled in between the sheets in great joy and

contentment.

In accordance with the kindly Badger’s injunctions, the two tired

animals came down to breakfast very late next morning, and found a

bright fire burning in the kitchen, and two young hedgehogs sitting on

a bench at the table, eating oatmeal porridge out of wooden bowls. The

hedgehogs dropped their spoons, rose to their feet, and ducked their

heads respectfully as the two entered.

“There, sit down, sit down,” said the Rat pleasantly, “and go on with

your porridge. Where have you youngsters come from? Lost your way in

the snow, I suppose?”

“Yes, please, sir,” said the elder of the two hedgehogs respectfully.

“Me and little Billy here, we was trying to find our way to

school—mother _would_ have us go, was the weather ever so—and of course

we lost ourselves, sir, and Billy he got frightened and took and cried,

being young and faint-hearted. And at last we happened up against Mr.

Badger’s back door, and made so bold as to knock, sir, for Mr. Badger

he’s a kind-hearted gentleman, as everyone knows——”

“I understand,” said the Rat, cutting himself some rashers from a side

of bacon, while the Mole dropped some eggs into a saucepan. “And what’s

the weather like outside? You needn’t ‘sir’ me quite so much?” he

added.

“O, terrible bad, sir, terrible deep the snow is,” said the hedgehog.

“No getting out for the likes of you gentlemen to-day.”

“Where’s Mr. Badger?” inquired the Mole, as he warmed the coffee-pot

before the fire.

“The master’s gone into his study, sir,” replied the hedgehog, “and he

said as how he was going to be particular busy this morning, and on no

account was he to be disturbed.”

This explanation, of course, was thoroughly understood by every one

present. The fact is, as already set forth, when you live a life of

intense activity for six months in the year, and of comparative or

actual somnolence for the other six, during the latter period you

cannot be continually pleading sleepiness when there are people about

or things to be done. The excuse gets monotonous. The animals well knew

that Badger, having eaten a hearty breakfast, had retired to his study

and settled himself in an arm-chair with his legs up on another and a

red cotton handkerchief over his face, and was being “busy” in the

usual way at this time of the year.

The front-door bell clanged loudly, and the Rat, who was very greasy

with buttered toast, sent Billy, the smaller hedgehog, to see who it

might be. There was a sound of much stamping in the hall, and presently

Billy returned in front of the Otter, who threw himself on the Rat with

an embrace and a shout of affectionate greeting.

“Get off!” spluttered the Rat, with his mouth full.

“Thought I should find you here all right,” said the Otter cheerfully.

“They were all in a great state of alarm along River Bank when I

arrived this morning. Rat never been home all night—nor Mole

either—something dreadful must have happened, they said; and the snow

had covered up all your tracks, of course. But I knew that when people

were in any fix they mostly went to Badger, or else Badger got to know

of it somehow, so I came straight off here, through the Wild Wood and

the snow! My! it was fine, coming through the snow as the red sun was

rising and showing against the black tree-trunks! As you went along in

the stillness, every now and then masses of snow slid off the branches

suddenly with a flop! making you jump and run for cover. Snow-castles

and snow-caverns had sprung up out of nowhere in the night—and snow

bridges, terraces, ramparts—I could have stayed and played with them

for hours. Here and there great branches had been torn away by the

sheer weight of the snow, and robins perched and hopped on them in

their perky conceited way, just as if they had done it themselves. A

ragged string of wild geese passed overhead, high on the grey sky, and

a few rooks whirled over the trees, inspected, and flapped off

homewards with a disgusted expression; but I met no sensible being to

ask the news of. About halfway across I came on a rabbit sitting on a

stump, cleaning his silly face with his paws. He was a pretty scared

animal when I crept up behind him and placed a heavy forepaw on his

shoulder. I had to cuff his head once or twice to get any sense out of

it at all. At last I managed to extract from him that Mole had been

seen in the Wild Wood last night by one of them. It was the talk of the

burrows, he said, how Mole, Mr. Rat’s particular friend, was in a bad

fix; how he had lost his way, and ‘They’ were up and out hunting, and

were chivvying him round and round. ‘Then why didn’t any of you _do_

something?’ I asked. ‘You mayn’t be blest with brains, but there are

hundreds and hundreds of you, big, stout fellows, as fat as butter, and

your burrows running in all directions, and you could have taken him in

and made him safe and comfortable, or tried to, at all events.’ ‘What,

_us?_’ he merely said: ‘_do_ something? us rabbits?’ So I cuffed him

again and left him. There was nothing else to be done. At any rate, I

had learnt something; and if I had had the luck to meet any of ‘Them’

I’d have learnt something more—or _they_ would.”

“Weren’t you at all—er—nervous?” asked the Mole, some of yesterday’s

terror coming back to him at the mention of the Wild Wood.

“Nervous?” The Otter showed a gleaming set of strong white teeth as he

laughed. “I’d give ’em nerves if any of them tried anything on with me.

Here, Mole, fry me some slices of ham, like the good little chap you

are. I’m frightfully hungry, and I’ve got any amount to say to Ratty

here. Haven’t seen him for an age.”

So the good-natured Mole, having cut some slices of ham, set the

hedgehogs to fry it, and returned to his own breakfast, while the Otter

and the Rat, their heads together, eagerly talked river-shop, which is

long shop and talk that is endless, running on like the babbling river

itself.

A plate of fried ham had just been cleared and sent back for more, when

the Badger entered, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and greeted them all

in his quiet, simple way, with kind enquiries for every one. “It must

be getting on for luncheon time,” he remarked to the Otter. “Better

stop and have it with us. You must be hungry, this cold morning.”

“Rather!” replied the Otter, winking at the Mole. “The sight of these

greedy young hedgehogs stuffing themselves with fried ham makes me feel

positively famished.”

The hedgehogs, who were just beginning to feel hungry again after their

porridge, and after working so hard at their frying, looked timidly up

at Mr. Badger, but were too shy to say anything.

“Here, you two youngsters be off home to your mother,” said the Badger

kindly. “I’ll send some one with you to show you the way. You won’t

want any dinner to-day, I’ll be bound.”

He gave them sixpence apiece and a pat on the head, and they went off

with much respectful swinging of caps and touching of forelocks.

Presently they all sat down to luncheon together. The Mole found

himself placed next to Mr. Badger, and, as the other two were still

deep in river-gossip from which nothing could divert them, he took the

opportunity to tell Badger how comfortable and home-like it all felt to

him. “Once well underground,” he said, “you know exactly where you are.

Nothing can happen to you, and nothing can get at you. You’re entirely

your own master, and you don’t have to consult anybody or mind what

they say. Things go on all the same overhead, and you let ’em, and

don’t bother about ’em. When you want to, up you go, and there the

things are, waiting for you.”

The Badger simply beamed on him. “That’s exactly what I say,” he

replied. “There’s no security, or peace and tranquillity, except

underground. And then, if your ideas get larger and you want to

expand—why, a dig and a scrape, and there you are! If you feel your

house is a bit too big, you stop up a hole or two, and there you are

again! No builders, no tradesmen, no remarks passed on you by fellows

looking over your wall, and, above all, no _weather_. Look at Rat, now.

A couple of feet of flood water, and he’s got to move into hired

lodgings; uncomfortable, inconveniently situated, and horribly

expensive. Take Toad. I say nothing against Toad Hall; quite the best

house in these parts, _as_ a house. But supposing a fire breaks

out—where’s Toad? Supposing tiles are blown off, or walls sink or

crack, or windows get broken—where’s Toad? Supposing the rooms are

draughty—I _hate_ a draught myself—where’s Toad? No, up and out of

doors is good enough to roam about and get one’s living in; but

underground to come back to at last—that’s my idea of _home!_”

The Mole assented heartily; and the Badger in consequence got very

friendly with him. “When lunch is over,” he said, “I’ll take you all

round this little place of mine. I can see you’ll appreciate it. You

understand what domestic architecture ought to be, you do.”

After luncheon, accordingly, when the other two had settled themselves

into the chimney-corner and had started a heated argument on the

subject of _eels_, the Badger lighted a lantern and bade the Mole

follow him. Crossing the hall, they passed down one of the principal

tunnels, and the wavering light of the lantern gave glimpses on either

side of rooms both large and small, some mere cupboards, others nearly

as broad and imposing as Toad’s dining-hall. A narrow passage at right

angles led them into another corridor, and here the same thing was

repeated. The Mole was staggered at the size, the extent, the

ramifications of it all; at the length of the dim passages, the solid

vaultings of the crammed store-chambers, the masonry everywhere, the

pillars, the arches, the pavements. “How on earth, Badger,” he said at

last, “did you ever find time and strength to do all this? It’s

astonishing!”

“It _would_ be astonishing indeed,” said the Badger simply, “if I _had_

done it. But as a matter of fact I did none of it—only cleaned out the

passages and chambers, as far as I had need of them. There’s lots more

of it, all round about. I see you don’t understand, and I must explain

it to you. Well, very long ago, on the spot where the Wild Wood waves

now, before ever it had planted itself and grown up to what it now is,

there was a city—a city of people, you know. Here, where we are

standing, they lived, and walked, and talked, and slept, and carried on

their business. Here they stabled their horses and feasted, from here

they rode out to fight or drove out to trade. They were a powerful

people, and rich, and great builders. They built to last, for they

thought their city would last for ever.”

“But what has become of them all?” asked the Mole.

“Who can tell?” said the Badger. “People come—they stay for a while,

they flourish, they build—and they go. It is their way. But we remain.

There were badgers here, I’ve been told, long before that same city

ever came to be. And now there are badgers here again. We are an

enduring lot, and we may move out for a time, but we wait, and are

patient, and back we come. And so it will ever be.”

“Well, and when they went at last, those people?” said the Mole.

“When they went,” continued the Badger, “the strong winds and

persistent rains took the matter in hand, patiently, ceaselessly, year

after year. Perhaps we badgers too, in our small way, helped a

little—who knows? It was all down, down, down, gradually—ruin and

levelling and disappearance. Then it was all up, up, up, gradually, as

seeds grew to saplings, and saplings to forest trees, and bramble and

fern came creeping in to help. Leaf-mould rose and obliterated, streams

in their winter freshets brought sand and soil to clog and to cover,

and in course of time our home was ready for us again, and we moved in.

Up above us, on the surface, the same thing happened. Animals arrived,

liked the look of the place, took up their quarters, settled down,

spread, and flourished. They didn’t bother themselves about the

past—they never do; they’re too busy. The place was a bit humpy and

hillocky, naturally, and full of holes; but that was rather an

advantage. And they don’t bother about the future, either—the future

when perhaps the people will move in again—for a time—as may very well

be. The Wild Wood is pretty well populated by now; with all the usual

lot, good, bad, and indifferent—I name no names. It takes all sorts to

make a world. But I fancy you know something about them yourself by

this time.”

“I do indeed,” said the Mole, with a slight shiver.

“Well, well,” said the Badger, patting him on the shoulder, “it was

your first experience of them, you see. They’re not so bad really; and

we must all live and let live. But I’ll pass the word around to-morrow,

and I think you’ll have no further trouble. Any friend of _mine_ walks

where he likes in this country, or I’ll know the reason why!”

When they got back to the kitchen again, they found the Rat walking up

and down, very restless. The underground atmosphere was oppressing him

and getting on his nerves, and he seemed really to be afraid that the

river would run away if he wasn’t there to look after it. So he had his

overcoat on, and his pistols thrust into his belt again. “Come along,

Mole,” he said anxiously, as soon as he caught sight of them. “We must

get off while it’s daylight. Don’t want to spend another night in the

Wild Wood again.”

“It’ll be all right, my fine fellow,” said the Otter. “I’m coming along

with you, and I know every path blindfold; and if there’s a head that

needs to be punched, you can confidently rely upon me to punch it.”

“You really needn’t fret, Ratty,” added the Badger placidly. “My

passages run further than you think, and I’ve bolt-holes to the edge of

the wood in several directions, though I don’t care for everybody to

know about them. When you really have to go, you shall leave by one of

my short cuts. Meantime, make yourself easy, and sit down again.”

The Rat was nevertheless still anxious to be off and attend to his

river, so the Badger, taking up his lantern again, led the way along a

damp and airless tunnel that wound and dipped, part vaulted, part hewn

through solid rock, for a weary distance that seemed to be miles. At

last daylight began to show itself confusedly through tangled growth

overhanging the mouth of the passage; and the Badger, bidding them a

hasty good-bye, pushed them hurriedly through the opening, made

everything look as natural as possible again, with creepers, brushwood,

and dead leaves, and retreated.

They found themselves standing on the very edge of the Wild Wood. Rocks

and brambles and tree-roots behind them, confusedly heaped and tangled;

in front, a great space of quiet fields, hemmed by lines of hedges

black on the snow, and, far ahead, a glint of the familiar old river,

while the wintry sun hung red and low on the horizon. The Otter, as

knowing all the paths, took charge of the party, and they trailed out

on a bee-line for a distant stile. Pausing there a moment and looking

back, they saw the whole mass of the Wild Wood, dense, menacing,

compact, grimly set in vast white surroundings; simultaneously they

turned and made swiftly for home, for firelight and the familiar things

it played on, for the voice, sounding cheerily outside their window, of

the river that they knew and trusted in all its moods, that never made

them afraid with any amazement.

As he hurried along, eagerly anticipating the moment when he would be

at home again among the things he knew and liked, the Mole saw clearly

that he was an animal of tilled field and hedge-row, linked to the

ploughed furrow, the frequented pasture, the lane of evening

lingerings, the cultivated garden-plot. For others the asperities, the

stubborn endurance, or the clash of actual conflict, that went with

Nature in the rough; he must be wise, must keep to the pleasant places

in which his lines were laid and which held adventure enough, in their

way, to last for a lifetime.

V.

DULCE DOMUM

The sheep ran huddling together against the hurdles, blowing out thin

nostrils and stamping with delicate fore-feet, their heads thrown back

and a light steam rising from the crowded sheep-pen into the frosty

air, as the two animals hastened by in high spirits, with much chatter

and laughter. They were returning across country after a long day’s

outing with Otter, hunting and exploring on the wide uplands where

certain streams tributary to their own River had their first small

beginnings; and the shades of the short winter day were closing in on

them, and they had still some distance to go. Plodding at random across

the plough, they had heard the sheep and had made for them; and now,

leading from the sheep-pen, they found a beaten track that made walking

a lighter business, and responded, moreover, to that small inquiring

something which all animals carry inside them, saying unmistakably,

“Yes, quite right; _this_ leads home!”

“It looks as if we were coming to a village,” said the Mole somewhat

dubiously, slackening his pace, as the track, that had in time become a

path and then had developed into a lane, now handed them over to the

charge of a well-metalled road. The animals did not hold with villages,

and their own highways, thickly frequented as they were, took an

independent course, regardless of church, post office, or public-house.

“Oh, never mind!” said the Rat. “At this season of the year they’re all

safe indoors by this time, sitting round the fire; men, women, and

children, dogs and cats and all. We shall slip through all right,

without any bother or unpleasantness, and we can have a look at them

through their windows if you like, and see what they’re doing.”

The rapid nightfall of mid-December had quite beset the little village

as they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery

snow. Little was visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either

side of the street, where the firelight or lamplight of each cottage

overflowed through the casements into the dark world without. Most of

the low latticed windows were innocent of blinds, and to the lookers-in

from outside, the inmates, gathered round the tea-table, absorbed in

handiwork, or talking with laughter and gesture, had each that happy

grace which is the last thing the skilled actor shall capture—the

natural grace which goes with perfect unconsciousness of observation.

Moving at will from one theatre to another, the two spectators, so far

from home themselves, had something of wistfulness in their eyes as

they watched a cat being stroked, a sleepy child picked up and huddled

off to bed, or a tired man stretch and knock out his pipe on the end of

a smouldering log.

But it was from one little window, with its blind drawn down, a mere

blank transparency on the night, that the sense of home and the little

curtained world within walls—the larger stressful world of outside

Nature shut out and forgotten—most pulsated. Close against the white

blind hung a bird-cage, clearly silhouetted, every wire, perch, and

appurtenance distinct and recognisable, even to yesterday’s dull-edged

lump of sugar. On the middle perch the fluffy occupant, head tucked

well into feathers, seemed so near to them as to be easily stroked, had

they tried; even the delicate tips of his plumped-out plumage pencilled

plainly on the illuminated screen. As they looked, the sleepy little

fellow stirred uneasily, woke, shook himself, and raised his head. They

could see the gape of his tiny beak as he yawned in a bored sort of

way, looked round, and then settled his head into his back again, while

the ruffled feathers gradually subsided into perfect stillness. Then a

gust of bitter wind took them in the back of the neck, a small sting of

frozen sleet on the skin woke them as from a dream, and they knew their

toes to be cold and their legs tired, and their own home distant a

weary way.

Once beyond the village, where the cottages ceased abruptly, on either

side of the road they could smell through the darkness the friendly

fields again; and they braced themselves for the last long stretch, the

home stretch, the stretch that we know is bound to end, some time, in

the rattle of the door-latch, the sudden firelight, and the sight of

familiar things greeting us as long-absent travellers from far

over-sea. They plodded along steadily and silently, each of them

thinking his own thoughts. The Mole’s ran a good deal on supper, as it

was pitch-dark, and it was all a strange country for him as far as he

knew, and he was following obediently in the wake of the Rat, leaving

the guidance entirely to him. As for the Rat, he was walking a little

way ahead, as his habit was, his shoulders humped, his eyes fixed on

the straight grey road in front of him; so he did not notice poor Mole

when suddenly the summons reached him, and took him like an electric

shock.

We others, who have long lost the more subtle of the physical senses,

have not even proper terms to express an animal’s inter-communications

with his surroundings, living or otherwise, and have only the word

“smell,” for instance, to include the whole range of delicate thrills

which murmur in the nose of the animal night and day, summoning,

warning, inciting, repelling. It was one of these mysterious fairy

calls from out the void that suddenly reached Mole in the darkness,

making him tingle through and through with its very familiar appeal,

even while yet he could not clearly remember what it was. He stopped

dead in his tracks, his nose searching hither and thither in its

efforts to recapture the fine filament, the telegraphic current, that

had so strongly moved him. A moment, and he had caught it again; and

with it this time came recollection in fullest flood.

Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those soft

touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling

and tugging, all one way! Why, it must be quite close by him at that

moment, his old home that he had hurriedly forsaken and never sought

again, that day when he first found the river! And now it was sending

out its scouts and its messengers to capture him and bring him in.

Since his escape on that bright morning he had hardly given it a

thought, so absorbed had he been in his new life, in all its pleasures,

its surprises, its fresh and captivating experiences. Now, with a rush

of old memories, how clearly it stood up before him, in the darkness!

Shabby indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he

had made for himself, the home he had been so happy to get back to

after his day’s work. And the home had been happy with him, too,

evidently, and was missing him, and wanted him back, and was telling

him so, through his nose, sorrowfully, reproachfully, but with no

bitterness or anger; only with plaintive reminder that it was there,

and wanted him.

The call was clear, the summons was plain. He must obey it instantly,

and go. “Ratty!” he called, full of joyful excitement, “hold on! Come

back! I want you, quick!”

“Oh, _come_ along, Mole, do!” replied the Rat cheerfully, still

plodding along.

“_Please_ stop, Ratty!” pleaded the poor Mole, in anguish of heart.

“You don’t understand! It’s my home, my old home! I’ve just come across

the smell of it, and it’s close by here, really quite close. And I

_must_ go to it, I must, I must! Oh, come back, Ratty! Please, please

come back!”

The Rat was by this time very far ahead, too far to hear clearly what

the Mole was calling, too far to catch the sharp note of painful appeal

in his voice. And he was much taken up with the weather, for he too

could smell something—something suspiciously like approaching snow.

“Mole, we mustn’t stop now, really!” he called back. “We’ll come for it

to-morrow, whatever it is you’ve found. But I daren’t stop now—it’s

late, and the snow’s coming on again, and I’m not sure of the way! And

I want your nose, Mole, so come on quick, there’s a good fellow!” And

the Rat pressed forward on his way without waiting for an answer.

Poor Mole stood alone in the road, his heart torn asunder, and a big

sob gathering, gathering, somewhere low down inside him, to leap up to

the surface presently, he knew, in passionate escape. But even under

such a test as this his loyalty to his friend stood firm. Never for a

moment did he dream of abandoning him. Meanwhile, the wafts from his

old home pleaded, whispered, conjured, and finally claimed him

imperiously. He dared not tarry longer within their magic circle. With

a wrench that tore his very heartstrings he set his face down the road

and followed submissively in the track of the Rat, while faint, thin

little smells, still dogging his retreating nose, reproached him for

his new friendship and his callous forgetfulness.