With an effort he caught up to the unsuspecting Rat, who began

chattering cheerfully about what they would do when they got back, and

how jolly a fire of logs in the parlour would be, and what a supper he

meant to eat; never noticing his companion’s silence and distressful

state of mind. At last, however, when they had gone some considerable

way further, and were passing some tree-stumps at the edge of a copse

that bordered the road, he stopped and said kindly, “Look here, Mole

old chap, you seem dead tired. No talk left in you, and your feet

dragging like lead. We’ll sit down here for a minute and rest. The snow

has held off so far, and the best part of our journey is over.”

The Mole subsided forlornly on a tree-stump and tried to control

himself, for he felt it surely coming. The sob he had fought with so

long refused to be beaten. Up and up, it forced its way to the air, and

then another, and another, and others thick and fast; till poor Mole at

last gave up the struggle, and cried freely and helplessly and openly,

now that he knew it was all over and he had lost what he could hardly

be said to have found.

The Rat, astonished and dismayed at the violence of Mole’s paroxysm of

grief, did not dare to speak for a while. At last he said, very quietly

and sympathetically, “What is it, old fellow? Whatever can be the

matter? Tell us your trouble, and let me see what I can do.”

Poor Mole found it difficult to get any words out between the upheavals

of his chest that followed one upon another so quickly and held back

speech and choked it as it came. “I know it’s a—shabby, dingy little

place,” he sobbed forth at last, brokenly: “not like—your cosy

quarters—or Toad’s beautiful hall—or Badger’s great house—but it was my

own little home—and I was fond of it—and I went away and forgot all

about it—and then I smelt it suddenly—on the road, when I called and

you wouldn’t listen, Rat—and everything came back to me with a rush—and

I _wanted_ it!—O dear, O dear!—and when you _wouldn’t_ turn back,

Ratty—and I had to leave it, though I was smelling it all the time—I

thought my heart would break.—We might have just gone and had one look

at it, Ratty—only one look—it was close by—but you wouldn’t turn back,

Ratty, you wouldn’t turn back! O dear, O dear!”

Recollection brought fresh waves of sorrow, and sobs again took full

charge of him, preventing further speech.

The Rat stared straight in front of him, saying nothing, only patting

Mole gently on the shoulder. After a time he muttered gloomily, “I see

it all now! What a _pig_ I have been! A pig—that’s me! Just a pig—a

plain pig!”

He waited till Mole’s sobs became gradually less stormy and more

rhythmical; he waited till at last sniffs were frequent and sobs only

intermittent. Then he rose from his seat, and, remarking carelessly,

“Well, now we’d really better be getting on, old chap!” set off up the

road again, over the toilsome way they had come.

“Wherever are you (hic) going to (hic), Ratty?” cried the tearful Mole,

looking up in alarm.

“We’re going to find that home of yours, old fellow,” replied the Rat

pleasantly; “so you had better come along, for it will take some

finding, and we shall want your nose.”

“Oh, come back, Ratty, do!” cried the Mole, getting up and hurrying

after him. “It’s no good, I tell you! It’s too late, and too dark, and

the place is too far off, and the snow’s coming! And—and I never meant

to let you know I was feeling that way about it—it was all an accident

and a mistake! And think of River Bank, and your supper!”

“Hang River Bank, and supper too!” said the Rat heartily. “I tell you,

I’m going to find this place now, if I stay out all night. So cheer up,

old chap, and take my arm, and we’ll very soon be back there again.”

Still snuffling, pleading, and reluctant, Mole suffered himself to be

dragged back along the road by his imperious companion, who by a flow

of cheerful talk and anecdote endeavoured to beguile his spirits back

and make the weary way seem shorter. When at last it seemed to the Rat

that they must be nearing that part of the road where the Mole had been

“held up,” he said, “Now, no more talking. Business! Use your nose, and

give your mind to it.”

They moved on in silence for some little way, when suddenly the Rat was

conscious, through his arm that was linked in Mole’s, of a faint sort

of electric thrill that was passing down that animal’s body. Instantly

he disengaged himself, fell back a pace, and waited, all attention.

The signals were coming through!

Mole stood a moment rigid, while his uplifted nose, quivering slightly,

felt the air.

Then a short, quick run forward—a fault—a check—a try back; and then a

slow, steady, confident advance.

The Rat, much excited, kept close to his heels as the Mole, with

something of the air of a sleep-walker, crossed a dry ditch, scrambled

through a hedge, and nosed his way over a field open and trackless and

bare in the faint starlight.

Suddenly, without giving warning, he dived; but the Rat was on the

alert, and promptly followed him down the tunnel to which his unerring

nose had faithfully led him.

It was close and airless, and the earthy smell was strong, and it

seemed a long time to Rat ere the passage ended and he could stand

erect and stretch and shake himself. The Mole struck a match, and by

its light the Rat saw that they were standing in an open space, neatly

swept and sanded underfoot, and directly facing them was Mole’s little

front door, with “Mole End” painted, in Gothic lettering, over the

bell-pull at the side.

Mole reached down a lantern from a nail on the wall and lit it... and

the Rat, looking round him, saw that they were in a sort of fore-court.

A garden-seat stood on one side of the door, and on the other a roller;

for the Mole, who was a tidy animal when at home, could not stand

having his ground kicked up by other animals into little runs that

ended in earth-heaps. On the walls hung wire baskets with ferns in

them, alternating with brackets carrying plaster statuary—Garibaldi,

and the infant Samuel, and Queen Victoria, and other heroes of modern

Italy. Down on one side of the forecourt ran a skittle-alley, with

benches along it and little wooden tables marked with rings that hinted

at beer-mugs. In the middle was a small round pond containing gold-fish

and surrounded by a cockle-shell border. Out of the centre of the pond

rose a fanciful erection clothed in more cockle-shells and topped by a

large silvered glass ball that reflected everything all wrong and had a

very pleasing effect.

Mole’s face-beamed at the sight of all these objects so dear to him,

and he hurried Rat through the door, lit a lamp in the hall, and took

one glance round his old home. He saw the dust lying thick on

everything, saw the cheerless, deserted look of the long-neglected

house, and its narrow, meagre dimensions, its worn and shabby

contents—and collapsed again on a hall-chair, his nose to his paws. “O

Ratty!” he cried dismally, “why ever did I do it? Why did I bring you

to this poor, cold little place, on a night like this, when you might

have been at River Bank by this time, toasting your toes before a

blazing fire, with all your own nice things about you!”

The Rat paid no heed to his doleful self-reproaches. He was running

here and there, opening doors, inspecting rooms and cupboards, and

lighting lamps and candles and sticking them, up everywhere. “What a

capital little house this is!” he called out cheerily. “So compact! So

well planned! Everything here and everything in its place! We’ll make a

jolly night of it. The first thing we want is a good fire; I’ll see to

that—I always know where to find things. So this is the parlour?

Splendid! Your own idea, those little sleeping-bunks in the wall?

Capital! Now, I’ll fetch the wood and the coals, and you get a duster,

Mole—you’ll find one in the drawer of the kitchen table—and try and

smarten things up a bit. Bustle about, old chap!”

Encouraged by his inspiriting companion, the Mole roused himself and

dusted and polished with energy and heartiness, while the Rat, running

to and fro with armfuls of fuel, soon had a cheerful blaze roaring up

the chimney. He hailed the Mole to come and warm himself; but Mole

promptly had another fit of the blues, dropping down on a couch in dark

despair and burying his face in his duster. “Rat,” he moaned, “how

about your supper, you poor, cold, hungry, weary animal? I’ve nothing

to give you—nothing—not a crumb!”

“What a fellow you are for giving in!” said the Rat reproachfully.

“Why, only just now I saw a sardine-opener on the kitchen dresser,

quite distinctly; and everybody knows that means there are sardines

about somewhere in the neighbourhood. Rouse yourself! pull yourself

together, and come with me and forage.”

They went and foraged accordingly, hunting through every cupboard and

turning out every drawer. The result was not so very depressing after

all, though of course it might have been better; a tin of sardines—a

box of captain’s biscuits, nearly full—and a German sausage encased in

silver paper.

“There’s a banquet for you!” observed the Rat, as he arranged the

table. “I know some animals who would give their ears to be sitting

down to supper with us to-night!”

“No bread!” groaned the Mole dolorously; “no butter, no——”

“No _pâté de foie gras_, no champagne!” continued the Rat, grinning.

“And that reminds me—what’s that little door at the end of the passage?

Your cellar, of course! Every luxury in this house! Just you wait a

minute.”

He made for the cellar-door, and presently reappeared, somewhat dusty,

with a bottle of beer in each paw and another under each arm,

“Self-indulgent beggar you seem to be, Mole,” he observed. “Deny

yourself nothing. This is really the jolliest little place I ever was

in. Now, wherever did you pick up those prints? Make the place look so

home-like, they do. No wonder you’re so fond of it, Mole. Tell us all

about it, and how you came to make it what it is.”

Then, while the Rat busied himself fetching plates, and knives and

forks, and mustard which he mixed in an egg-cup, the Mole, his bosom

still heaving with the stress of his recent emotion, related—somewhat

shyly at first, but with more freedom as he warmed to his subject—how

this was planned, and how that was thought out, and how this was got

through a windfall from an aunt, and that was a wonderful find and a

bargain, and this other thing was bought out of laborious savings and a

certain amount of “going without.” His spirits finally quite restored,

he must needs go and caress his possessions, and take a lamp and show

off their points to his visitor and expatiate on them, quite forgetful

of the supper they both so much needed; Rat, who was desperately hungry

but strove to conceal it, nodding seriously, examining with a puckered

brow, and saying, “wonderful,” and “most remarkable,” at intervals,

when the chance for an observation was given him.

At last the Rat succeeded in decoying him to the table, and had just

got seriously to work with the sardine-opener when sounds were heard

from the fore-court without—sounds like the scuffling of small feet in

the gravel and a confused murmur of tiny voices, while broken sentences

reached them—“Now, all in a line—hold the lantern up a bit, Tommy—clear

your throats first—no coughing after I say one, two, three.—Where’s

young Bill?—Here, come on, do, we’re all a-waiting——”

“What’s up?” inquired the Rat, pausing in his labours.

“I think it must be the field-mice,” replied the Mole, with a touch of

pride in his manner. “They go round carol-singing regularly at this

time of the year. They’re quite an institution in these parts. And they

never pass me over—they come to Mole End last of all; and I used to

give them hot drinks, and supper too sometimes, when I could afford it.

It will be like old times to hear them again.”

“Let’s have a look at them!” cried the Rat, jumping up and running to

the door.

It was a pretty sight, and a seasonable one, that met their eyes when

they flung the door open. In the fore-court, lit by the dim rays of a

horn lantern, some eight or ten little fieldmice stood in a semicircle,

red worsted comforters round their throats, their fore-paws thrust deep

into their pockets, their feet jigging for warmth. With bright beady

eyes they glanced shyly at each other, sniggering a little, sniffing

and applying coat-sleeves a good deal. As the door opened, one of the

elder ones that carried the lantern was just saying, “Now then, one,

two, three!” and forthwith their shrill little voices uprose on the

air, singing one of the old-time carols that their forefathers composed

in fields that were fallow and held by frost, or when snow-bound in

chimney corners, and handed down to be sung in the miry street to

lamp-lit windows at Yule-time.

CAROL

Villagers all, this frosty tide,

Let your doors swing open wide,

Though wind may follow, and snow beside,

Yet draw us in by your fire to bide;

Joy shall be yours in the morning!

Here we stand in the cold and the sleet,

Blowing fingers and stamping feet,

Come from far away you to greet—

You by the fire and we in the street—

Bidding you joy in the morning!

For ere one half of the night was gone,

Sudden a star has led us on,

Raining bliss and benison—

Bliss to-morrow and more anon,

Joy for every morning!

Goodman Joseph toiled through the snow—

Saw the star o’er a stable low;

Mary she might not further go—

Welcome thatch, and litter below!

Joy was hers in the morning!

And then they heard the angels tell

“Who were the first to cry _Nowell?_

Animals all, as it befell,

In the stable where they did dwell!

Joy shall be theirs in the morning!”

The voices ceased, the singers, bashful but smiling, exchanged sidelong

glances, and silence succeeded—but for a moment only. Then, from up

above and far away, down the tunnel they had so lately travelled was

borne to their ears in a faint musical hum the sound of distant bells

ringing a joyful and clangorous peal.

“Very well sung, boys!” cried the Rat heartily. “And now come along in,

all of you, and warm yourselves by the fire, and have something hot!”

“Yes, come along, field-mice,” cried the Mole eagerly. “This is quite

like old times! Shut the door after you. Pull up that settle to the

fire. Now, you just wait a minute, while we—O, Ratty!” he cried in

despair, plumping down on a seat, with tears impending. “Whatever are

we doing? We’ve nothing to give them!”

“You leave all that to me,” said the masterful Rat. “Here, you with the

lantern! Come over this way. I want to talk to you. Now, tell me, are

there any shops open at this hour of the night?”

“Why, certainly, sir,” replied the field-mouse respectfully. “At this

time of the year our shops keep open to all sorts of hours.”

“Then look here!” said the Rat. “You go off at once, you and your

lantern, and you get me——”

Here much muttered conversation ensued, and the Mole only heard bits of

it, such as—“Fresh, mind!—no, a pound of that will do—see you get

Buggins’s, for I won’t have any other—no, only the best—if you can’t

get it there, try somewhere else—yes, of course, home-made, no tinned

stuff—well then, do the best you can!” Finally, there was a chink of

coin passing from paw to paw, the field-mouse was provided with an

ample basket for his purchases, and off he hurried, he and his lantern.

The rest of the field-mice, perched in a row on the settle, their small

legs swinging, gave themselves up to enjoyment of the fire, and toasted

their chilblains till they tingled; while the Mole, failing to draw

them into easy conversation, plunged into family history and made each

of them recite the names of his numerous brothers, who were too young,

it appeared, to be allowed to go out a-carolling this year, but looked

forward very shortly to winning the parental consent.

The Rat, meanwhile, was busy examining the label on one of the

beer-bottles. “I perceive this to be Old Burton,” he remarked

approvingly. “_Sensible_ Mole! The very thing! Now we shall be able to

mull some ale! Get the things ready, Mole, while I draw the corks.”

It did not take long to prepare the brew and thrust the tin heater well

into the red heart of the fire; and soon every field-mouse was sipping

and coughing and choking (for a little mulled ale goes a long way) and

wiping his eyes and laughing and forgetting he had ever been cold in

all his life.

“They act plays too, these fellows,” the Mole explained to the Rat.

“Make them up all by themselves, and act them afterwards. And very well

they do it, too! They gave us a capital one last year, about a

field-mouse who was captured at sea by a Barbary corsair, and made to

row in a galley; and when he escaped and got home again, his lady-love

had gone into a convent. Here, _you!_ You were in it, I remember. Get

up and recite a bit.”

The field-mouse addressed got up on his legs, giggled shyly, looked

round the room, and remained absolutely tongue-tied. His comrades

cheered him on, Mole coaxed and encouraged him, and the Rat went so far

as to take him by the shoulders and shake him; but nothing could

overcome his stage-fright. They were all busily engaged on him like

watermen applying the Royal Humane Society’s regulations to a case of

long submersion, when the latch clicked, the door opened, and the

field-mouse with the lantern reappeared, staggering under the weight of

his basket.

There was no more talk of play-acting once the very real and solid

contents of the basket had been tumbled out on the table. Under the

generalship of Rat, everybody was set to do something or to fetch

something. In a very few minutes supper was ready, and Mole, as he took

the head of the table in a sort of a dream, saw a lately barren board

set thick with savoury comforts; saw his little friends’ faces brighten

and beam as they fell to without delay; and then let himself loose—for

he was famished indeed—on the provender so magically provided, thinking

what a happy home-coming this had turned out, after all. As they ate,

they talked of old times, and the field-mice gave him the local gossip

up to date, and answered as well as they could the hundred questions he

had to ask them. The Rat said little or nothing, only taking care that

each guest had what he wanted, and plenty of it, and that Mole had no

trouble or anxiety about anything.

They clattered off at last, very grateful and showering wishes of the

season, with their jacket pockets stuffed with remembrances for the

small brothers and sisters at home. When the door had closed on the

last of them and the chink of the lanterns had died away, Mole and Rat

kicked the fire up, drew their chairs in, brewed themselves a last

nightcap of mulled ale, and discussed the events of the long day. At

last the Rat, with a tremendous yawn, said, “Mole, old chap, I’m ready

to drop. Sleepy is simply not the word. That your own bunk over on that

side? Very well, then, I’ll take this. What a ripping little house this

is! Everything so handy!”

He clambered into his bunk and rolled himself well up in the blankets,

and slumber gathered him forthwith, as a swathe of barley is folded

into the arms of the reaping machine.

The weary Mole also was glad to turn in without delay, and soon had his

head on his pillow, in great joy and contentment. But ere he closed his

eyes he let them wander round his old room, mellow in the glow of the

firelight that played or rested on familiar and friendly things which

had long been unconsciously a part of him, and now smilingly received

him back, without rancour. He was now in just the frame of mind that

the tactful Rat had quietly worked to bring about in him. He saw

clearly how plain and simple—how narrow, even—it all was; but clearly,

too, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such

anchorage in one’s existence. He did not at all want to abandon the new

life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all

they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all

too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew he

must return to the larger stage. But it was good to think he had this

to come back to; this place which was all his own, these things which

were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the

same simple welcome.

VI.

MR. TOAD

It was a bright morning in the early part of summer; the river had

resumed its wonted banks and its accustomed pace, and a hot sun seemed

to be pulling everything green and bushy and spiky up out of the earth

towards him, as if by strings. The Mole and the Water Rat had been up

since dawn, very busy on matters connected with boats and the opening

of the boating season; painting and varnishing, mending paddles,

repairing cushions, hunting for missing boat-hooks, and so on; and were

finishing breakfast in their little parlour and eagerly discussing

their plans for the day, when a heavy knock sounded at the door.

“Bother!” said the Rat, all over egg. “See who it is, Mole, like a good

chap, since you’ve finished.”

The Mole went to attend the summons, and the Rat heard him utter a cry

of surprise. Then he flung the parlour door open, and announced with

much importance, “Mr. Badger!”

This was a wonderful thing, indeed, that the Badger should pay a formal

call on them, or indeed on anybody. He generally had to be caught, if

you wanted him badly, as he slipped quietly along a hedgerow of an

early morning or a late evening, or else hunted up in his own house in

the middle of the Wood, which was a serious undertaking.

The Badger strode heavily into the room, and stood looking at the two

animals with an expression full of seriousness. The Rat let his

egg-spoon fall on the table-cloth, and sat open-mouthed.

“The hour has come!” said the Badger at last with great solemnity.

“What hour?” asked the Rat uneasily, glancing at the clock on the

mantelpiece.

“_Whose_ hour, you should rather say,” replied the Badger. “Why, Toad’s

hour! The hour of Toad! I said I would take him in hand as soon as the

winter was well over, and I’m going to take him in hand to-day!”

“Toad’s hour, of course!” cried the Mole delightedly. “Hooray! I

remember now! _We’ll_ teach him to be a sensible Toad!”

“This very morning,” continued the Badger, taking an arm-chair, “as I

learnt last night from a trustworthy source, another new and

exceptionally powerful motor-car will arrive at Toad Hall on approval

or return. At this very moment, perhaps, Toad is busy arraying himself

in those singularly hideous habiliments so dear to him, which transform

him from a (comparatively) good-looking Toad into an Object which

throws any decent-minded animal that comes across it into a violent

fit. We must be up and doing, ere it is too late. You two animals will

accompany me instantly to Toad Hall, and the work of rescue shall be

accomplished.”

“Right you are!” cried the Rat, starting up. “We’ll rescue the poor

unhappy animal! We’ll convert him! He’ll be the most converted Toad

that ever was before we’ve done with him!”

They set off up the road on their mission of mercy, Badger leading the

way. Animals when in company walk in a proper and sensible manner, in

single file, instead of sprawling all across the road and being of no

use or support to each other in case of sudden trouble or danger.

They reached the carriage-drive of Toad Hall to find, as the Badger had

anticipated, a shiny new motor-car, of great size, painted a bright red

(Toad’s favourite colour), standing in front of the house. As they

neared the door it was flung open, and Mr. Toad, arrayed in goggles,

cap, gaiters, and enormous overcoat, came swaggering down the steps,

drawing on his gauntleted gloves.

“Hullo! come on, you fellows!” he cried cheerfully on catching sight of

them. “You’re just in time to come with me for a jolly—to come for a

jolly—for a—er—jolly——”

His hearty accents faltered and fell away as he noticed the stern

unbending look on the countenances of his silent friends, and his

invitation remained unfinished.

The Badger strode up the steps. “Take him inside,” he said sternly to

his companions. Then, as Toad was hustled through the door, struggling

and protesting, he turned to the _chauffeur_ in charge of the new

motor-car.

“I’m afraid you won’t be wanted to-day,” he said. “Mr. Toad has changed

his mind. He will not require the car. Please understand that this is

final. You needn’t wait.” Then he followed the others inside and shut

the door.

“Now then!” he said to the Toad, when the four of them stood together

in the Hall, “first of all, take those ridiculous things off!”

“Shan’t!” replied Toad, with great spirit. “What is the meaning of this

gross outrage? I demand an instant explanation.”

“Take them off him, then, you two,” ordered the Badger briefly.

They had to lay Toad out on the floor, kicking and calling all sorts of

names, before they could get to work properly. Then the Rat sat on him,

and the Mole got his motor-clothes off him bit by bit, and they stood

him up on his legs again. A good deal of his blustering spirit seemed

to have evaporated with the removal of his fine panoply. Now that he

was merely Toad, and no longer the Terror of the Highway, he giggled

feebly and looked from one to the other appealingly, seeming quite to

understand the situation.

“You knew it must come to this, sooner or later, Toad,” the Badger

explained severely.

You’ve disregarded all the warnings we’ve given you, you’ve gone on

squandering the money your father left you, and you’re getting us

animals a bad name in the district by your furious driving and your

smashes and your rows with the police. Independence is all very well,

but we animals never allow our friends to make fools of themselves

beyond a certain limit; and that limit you’ve reached. Now, you’re a

good fellow in many respects, and I don’t want to be too hard on you.

I’ll make one more effort to bring you to reason. You will come with me

into the smoking-room, and there you will hear some facts about

yourself; and we’ll see whether you come out of that room the same Toad

that you went in.”

He took Toad firmly by the arm, led him into the smoking-room, and

closed the door behind them.

“_That’s_ no good!” said the Rat contemptuously. “_Talking_ to Toad’ll

never cure him. He’ll _say_ anything.”

They made themselves comfortable in armchairs and waited patiently.

Through the closed door they could just hear the long continuous drone

of the Badger’s voice, rising and falling in waves of oratory; and

presently they noticed that the sermon began to be punctuated at

intervals by long-drawn sobs, evidently proceeding from the bosom of

Toad, who was a soft-hearted and affectionate fellow, very easily

converted—for the time being—to any point of view.

After some three-quarters of an hour the door opened, and the Badger

reappeared, solemnly leading by the paw a very limp and dejected Toad.

His skin hung baggily about him, his legs wobbled, and his cheeks were

furrowed by the tears so plentifully called forth by the Badger’s

moving discourse.

“Sit down there, Toad,” said the Badger kindly, pointing to a chair.

“My friends,” he went on, “I am pleased to inform you that Toad has at

last seen the error of his ways. He is truly sorry for his misguided

conduct in the past, and he has undertaken to give up motor-cars

entirely and for ever. I have his solemn promise to that effect.”

“That is very good news,” said the Mole gravely.

“Very good news indeed,” observed the Rat dubiously, “if only—_if_

only——”

He was looking very hard at Toad as he said this, and could not help

thinking he perceived something vaguely resembling a twinkle in that

animal’s still sorrowful eye.

“There’s only one thing more to be done,” continued the gratified

Badger. “Toad, I want you solemnly to repeat, before your friends here,

what you fully admitted to me in the smoking-room just now. First, you

are sorry for what you’ve done, and you see the folly of it all?”

There was a long, long pause. Toad looked desperately this way and

that, while the other animals waited in grave silence. At last he

spoke.

“No!” he said, a little sullenly, but stoutly; “I’m _not_ sorry. And it

wasn’t folly at all! It was simply glorious!”

“What?” cried the Badger, greatly scandalised. “You backsliding animal,

didn’t you tell me just now, in there——”

“Oh, yes, yes, in _there_,” said Toad impatiently. “I’d have said

anything in _there_. You’re so eloquent, dear Badger, and so moving,

and so convincing, and put all your points so frightfully well—you can

do what you like with me in _there_, and you know it. But I’ve been

searching my mind since, and going over things in it, and I find that

I’m not a bit sorry or repentant really, so it’s no earthly good saying

I am; now, is it?”

“Then you don’t promise,” said the Badger, “never to touch a motor-car

again?”

“Certainly not!” replied Toad emphatically. “On the contrary, I

faithfully promise that the very first motor-car I see, poop-poop! off

I go in it!”

“Told you so, didn’t I?” observed the Rat to the Mole.

“Very well, then,” said the Badger firmly, rising to his feet. “Since

you won’t yield to persuasion, we’ll try what force can do. I feared it

would come to this all along. You’ve often asked us three to come and

stay with you, Toad, in this handsome house of yours; well, now we’re

going to. When we’ve converted you to a proper point of view we may

quit, but not before. Take him upstairs, you two, and lock him up in

his bedroom, while we arrange matters between ourselves.”

“It’s for your own good, Toady, you know,” said the Rat kindly, as

Toad, kicking and struggling, was hauled up the stairs by his two

faithful friends. “Think what fun we shall all have together, just as

we used to, when you’ve quite got over this—this painful attack of

yours!”

“We’ll take great care of everything for you till you’re well, Toad,”

said the Mole; “and we’ll see your money isn’t wasted, as it has been.”

“No more of those regrettable incidents with the police, Toad,” said

the Rat, as they thrust him into his bedroom.

“And no more weeks in hospital, being ordered about by female nurses,

Toad,” added the Mole, turning the key on him.

They descended the stair, Toad shouting abuse at them through the

keyhole; and the three friends then met in conference on the situation.

“It’s going to be a tedious business,” said the Badger, sighing. “I’ve

never seen Toad so determined. However, we will see it out. He must

never be left an instant unguarded. We shall have to take it in turns

to be with him, till the poison has worked itself out of his system.”

They arranged watches accordingly. Each animal took it in turns to

sleep in Toad’s room at night, and they divided the day up between

them. At first Toad was undoubtedly very trying to his careful

guardians. When his violent paroxysms possessed him he would arrange

bedroom chairs in rude resemblance of a motor-car and would crouch on

the foremost of them, bent forward and staring fixedly ahead, making

uncouth and ghastly noises, till the climax was reached, when, turning

a complete somersault, he would lie prostrate amidst the ruins of the

chairs, apparently completely satisfied for the moment. As time passed,

however, these painful seizures grew gradually less frequent, and his

friends strove to divert his mind into fresh channels. But his interest

in other matters did not seem to revive, and he grew apparently languid

and depressed.

One fine morning the Rat, whose turn it was to go on duty, went

upstairs to relieve Badger, whom he found fidgeting to be off and

stretch his legs in a long ramble round his wood and down his earths

and burrows. “Toad’s still in bed,” he told the Rat, outside the door.

“Can’t get much out of him, except, ‘O leave him alone, he wants

nothing, perhaps he’ll be better presently, it may pass off in time,

don’t be unduly anxious,’ and so on. Now, you look out, Rat! When

Toad’s quiet and submissive and playing at being the hero of a

Sunday-school prize, then he’s at his artfullest. There’s sure to be

something up. I know him. Well, now, I must be off.”

“How are you to-day, old chap?” inquired the Rat cheerfully, as he

approached Toad’s bedside.

He had to wait some minutes for an answer. At last a feeble voice

replied, “Thank you so much, dear Ratty! So good of you to inquire! But

first tell me how you are yourself, and the excellent Mole?”

“O, _we’re_ all right,” replied the Rat. “Mole,” he added incautiously,

“is going out for a run round with Badger. They’ll be out till luncheon

time, so you and I will spend a pleasant morning together, and I’ll do

my best to amuse you. Now jump up, there’s a good fellow, and don’t lie

moping there on a fine morning like this!”

“Dear, kind Rat,” murmured Toad, “how little you realise my condition,

and how very far I am from ‘jumping up’ now—if ever! But do not trouble

about me. I hate being a burden to my friends, and I do not expect to

be one much longer. Indeed, I almost hope not.”

“Well, I hope not, too,” said the Rat heartily. “You’ve been a fine

bother to us all this time, and I’m glad to hear it’s going to stop.

And in weather like this, and the boating season just beginning! It’s

too bad of you, Toad! It isn’t the trouble we mind, but you’re making

us miss such an awful lot.”

“I’m afraid it _is_ the trouble you mind, though,” replied the Toad

languidly. “I can quite understand it. It’s natural enough. You’re

tired of bothering about me. I mustn’t ask you to do anything further.

I’m a nuisance, I know.”

“You are, indeed,” said the Rat. “But I tell you, I’d take any trouble

on earth for you, if only you’d be a sensible animal.”

“If I thought that, Ratty,” murmured Toad, more feebly than ever, “then

I would beg you—for the last time, probably—to step round to the

village as quickly as possible—even now it may be too late—and fetch

the doctor. But don’t you bother. It’s only a trouble, and perhaps we

may as well let things take their course.”

“Why, what do you want a doctor for?” inquired the Rat, coming closer

and examining him. He certainly lay very still and flat, and his voice

was weaker and his manner much changed.

“Surely you have noticed of late——” murmured Toad. “But, no—why should

you? Noticing things is only a trouble. To-morrow, indeed, you may be

saying to yourself, ‘O, if only I had noticed sooner! If only I had

done something!’ But no; it’s a trouble. Never mind—forget that I

asked.”

“Look here, old man,” said the Rat, beginning to get rather alarmed,

“of course I’ll fetch a doctor to you, if you really think you want

him. But you can hardly be bad enough for that yet. Let’s talk about

something else.”

“I fear, dear friend,” said Toad, with a sad smile, “that ‘talk’ can do

little in a case like this—or doctors either, for that matter; still,

one must grasp at the slightest straw. And, by the way—while you are

about it—I _hate_ to give you additional trouble, but I happen to

remember that you will pass the door—would you mind at the same time

asking the lawyer to step up? It would be a convenience to me, and

there are moments—perhaps I should say there is _a_ moment—when one

must face disagreeable tasks, at whatever cost to exhausted nature!”

“A lawyer! O, he must be really bad!” the affrighted Rat said to

himself, as he hurried from the room, not forgetting, however, to lock

the door carefully behind him.

Outside, he stopped to consider. The other two were far away, and he

had no one to consult.

“It’s best to be on the safe side,” he said, on reflection. “I’ve known

Toad fancy himself frightfully bad before, without the slightest

reason; but I’ve never heard him ask for a lawyer! If there’s nothing

really the matter, the doctor will tell him he’s an old ass, and cheer

him up; and that will be something gained. I’d better humour him and

go; it won’t take very long.” So he ran off to the village on his

errand of mercy.

The Toad, who had hopped lightly out of bed as soon as he heard the key

turned in the lock, watched him eagerly from the window till he

disappeared down the carriage-drive. Then, laughing heartily, he

dressed as quickly as possible in the smartest suit he could lay hands

on at the moment, filled his pockets with cash which he took from a

small drawer in the dressing-table, and next, knotting the sheets from

his bed together and tying one end of the improvised rope round the

central mullion of the handsome Tudor window which formed such a

feature of his bedroom, he scrambled out, slid lightly to the ground,

and, taking the opposite direction to the Rat, marched off

lightheartedly, whistling a merry tune.

It was a gloomy luncheon for Rat when the Badger and the Mole at length

returned, and he had to face them at table with his pitiful and

unconvincing story. The Badger’s caustic, not to say brutal, remarks

may be imagined, and therefore passed over; but it was painful to the

Rat that even the Mole, though he took his friend’s side as far as

possible, could not help saying, “You’ve been a bit of a duffer this

time, Ratty! Toad, too, of all animals!”

“He did it awfully well,” said the crestfallen Rat.

“He did _you_ awfully well!” rejoined the Badger hotly. “However,

talking won’t mend matters. He’s got clear away for the time, that’s

certain; and the worst of it is, he’ll be so conceited with what he’ll

think is his cleverness that he may commit any folly. One comfort is,

we’re free now, and needn’t waste any more of our precious time doing

sentry-go. But we’d better continue to sleep at Toad Hall for a while

longer. Toad may be brought back at any moment—on a stretcher, or

between two policemen.”

So spoke the Badger, not knowing what the future held in store, or how

much water, and of how turbid a character, was to run under bridges

before Toad should sit at ease again in his ancestral Hall.

Meanwhile, Toad, gay and irresponsible, was walking briskly along the

high road, some miles from home. At first he had taken by-paths, and

crossed many fields, and changed his course several times, in case of

pursuit; but now, feeling by this time safe from recapture, and the sun

smiling brightly on him, and all Nature joining in a chorus of approval

to the song of self-praise that his own heart was singing to him, he

almost danced along the road in his satisfaction and conceit.

“Smart piece of work that!” he remarked to himself chuckling. “Brain

against brute force—and brain came out on the top—as it’s bound to do.

Poor old Ratty! My! won’t he catch it when the Badger gets back! A

worthy fellow, Ratty, with many good qualities, but very little

intelligence and absolutely no education. I must take him in hand some

day, and see if I can make something of him.”

Filled full of conceited thoughts such as these he strode along, his

head in the air, till he reached a little town, where the sign of “The

Red Lion,” swinging across the road halfway down the main street,

reminded him that he had not breakfasted that day, and that he was

exceedingly hungry after his long walk. He marched into the Inn,

ordered the best luncheon that could be provided at so short a notice,

and sat down to eat it in the coffee-room.

He was about half-way through his meal when an only too familiar sound,

approaching down the street, made him start and fall a-trembling all

over. The poop-poop! drew nearer and nearer, the car could be heard to

turn into the inn-yard and come to a stop, and Toad had to hold on to

the leg of the table to conceal his over-mastering emotion. Presently

the party entered the coffee-room, hungry, talkative, and gay, voluble

on their experiences of the morning and the merits of the chariot that

had brought them along so well. Toad listened eagerly, all ears, for a

time; at last he could stand it no longer. He slipped out of the room

quietly, paid his bill at the bar, and as soon as he got outside

sauntered round quietly to the inn-yard. “There cannot be any harm,” he

said to himself, “in my only just _looking_ at it!”

The car stood in the middle of the yard, quite unattended, the

stable-helps and other hangers-on being all at their dinner. Toad

walked slowly round it, inspecting, criticising, musing deeply.

“I wonder,” he said to himself presently, “I wonder if this sort of car

_starts_ easily?”

Next moment, hardly knowing how it came about, he found he had hold of

the handle and was turning it. As the familiar sound broke forth, the

old passion seized on Toad and completely mastered him, body and soul.

As if in a dream he found himself, somehow, seated in the driver’s

seat; as if in a dream, he pulled the lever and swung the car round the

yard and out through the archway; and, as if in a dream, all sense of

right and wrong, all fear of obvious consequences, seemed temporarily

suspended. He increased his pace, and as the car devoured the street

and leapt forth on the high road through the open country, he was only

conscious that he was Toad once more, Toad at his best and highest,

Toad the terror, the traffic-queller, the Lord of the lone trail,

before whom all must give way or be smitten into nothingness and

everlasting night. He chanted as he flew, and the car responded with

sonorous drone; the miles were eaten up under him as he sped he knew

not whither, fulfilling his instincts, living his hour, reckless of

what might come to him.

“To my mind,” observed the Chairman of the Bench of Magistrates

cheerfully, “the _only_ difficulty that presents itself in this

otherwise very clear case is, how we can possibly make it sufficiently

hot for the incorrigible rogue and hardened ruffian whom we see

cowering in the dock before us. Let me see: he has been found guilty,

on the clearest evidence, first, of stealing a valuable motor-car;

secondly, of driving to the public danger; and, thirdly, of gross

impertinence to the rural police. Mr. Clerk, will you tell us, please,

what is the very stiffest penalty we can impose for each of these

offences? Without, of course, giving the prisoner the benefit of any

doubt, because there isn’t any.”

The Clerk scratched his nose with his pen. “Some people would

consider,” he observed, “that stealing the motor-car was the worst

offence; and so it is. But cheeking the police undoubtedly carries the

severest penalty; and so it ought. Supposing you were to say twelve

months for the theft, which is mild; and three years for the furious

driving, which is lenient; and fifteen years for the cheek, which was

pretty bad sort of cheek, judging by what we’ve heard from the

witness-box, even if you only believe one-tenth part of what you heard,

and I never believe more myself—those figures, if added together

correctly, tot up to nineteen years——”

“First-rate!” said the Chairman.

“—So you had better make it a round twenty years and be on the safe

side,” concluded the Clerk.

“An excellent suggestion!” said the Chairman approvingly. “Prisoner!

Pull yourself together and try and stand up straight. It’s going to be

twenty years for you this time. And mind, if you appear before us

again, upon any charge whatever, we shall have to deal with you very

seriously!”

Then the brutal minions of the law fell upon the hapless Toad; loaded

him with chains, and dragged him from the Court House, shrieking,

praying, protesting; across the marketplace, where the playful

populace, always as severe upon detected crime as they are sympathetic

and helpful when one is merely “wanted,” assailed him with jeers,

carrots, and popular catch-words; past hooting school children, their

innocent faces lit up with the pleasure they ever derive from the sight

of a gentleman in difficulties; across the hollow-sounding drawbridge,

below the spiky portcullis, under the frowning archway of the grim old

castle, whose ancient towers soared high overhead; past guardrooms full

of grinning soldiery off duty, past sentries who coughed in a horrid,

sarcastic way, because that is as much as a sentry on his post dare do

to show his contempt and abhorrence of crime; up time-worn winding

stairs, past men-at-arms in casquet and corselet of steel, darting

threatening looks through their vizards; across courtyards, where

mastiffs strained at their leash and pawed the air to get at him; past

ancient warders, their halberds leant against the wall, dozing over a

pasty and a flagon of brown ale; on and on, past the rack-chamber and

the thumbscrew-room, past the turning that led to the private scaffold,

till they reached the door of the grimmest dungeon that lay in the

heart of the innermost keep. There at last they paused, where an

ancient gaoler sat fingering a bunch of mighty keys.

“Oddsbodikins!” said the sergeant of police, taking off his helmet and

wiping his forehead. “Rouse thee, old loon, and take over from us this

vile Toad, a criminal of deepest guilt and matchless artfulness and

resource. Watch and ward him with all thy skill; and mark thee well,

greybeard, should aught untoward befall, thy old head shall answer for

his—and a murrain on both of them!”

The gaoler nodded grimly, laying his withered hand on the shoulder of

the miserable Toad. The rusty key creaked in the lock, the great door

clanged behind them; and Toad was a helpless prisoner in the remotest

dungeon of the best-guarded keep of the stoutest castle in all the

length and breadth of Merry England.

VII.

THE PIPER AT THE GATES OF DAWN

The Willow-Wren was twittering his thin little song, hidden himself in

the dark selvedge of the river bank. Though it was past ten o’clock at

night, the sky still clung to and retained some lingering skirts of

light from the departed day; and the sullen heats of the torrid

afternoon broke up and rolled away at the dispersing touch of the cool

fingers of the short midsummer night. Mole lay stretched on the bank,

still panting from the stress of the fierce day that had been cloudless

from dawn to late sunset, and waited for his friend to return. He had

been on the river with some companions, leaving the Water Rat free to

keep a engagement of long standing with Otter; and he had come back to

find the house dark and deserted, and no sign of Rat, who was doubtless

keeping it up late with his old comrade. It was still too hot to think

of staying indoors, so he lay on some cool dock-leaves, and thought

over the past day and its doings, and how very good they all had been.

The Rat’s light footfall was presently heard approaching over the

parched grass. “O, the blessed coolness!” he said, and sat down, gazing

thoughtfully into the river, silent and pre-occupied.

“You stayed to supper, of course?” said the Mole presently.

“Simply had to,” said the Rat. “They wouldn’t hear of my going before.

You know how kind they always are. And they made things as jolly for me

as ever they could, right up to the moment I left. But I felt a brute

all the time, as it was clear to me they were very unhappy, though they

tried to hide it. Mole, I’m afraid they’re in trouble. Little Portly is

missing again; and you know what a lot his father thinks of him, though

he never says much about it.”

“What, that child?” said the Mole lightly. “Well, suppose he is; why

worry about it? He’s always straying off and getting lost, and turning

up again; he’s so adventurous. But no harm ever happens to him.

Everybody hereabouts knows him and likes him, just as they do old

Otter, and you may be sure some animal or other will come across him

and bring him back again all right. Why, we’ve found him ourselves,

miles from home, and quite self-possessed and cheerful!”

“Yes; but this time it’s more serious,” said the Rat gravely. “He’s

been missing for some days now, and the Otters have hunted everywhere,

high and low, without finding the slightest trace. And they’ve asked

every animal, too, for miles around, and no one knows anything about

him. Otter’s evidently more anxious than he’ll admit. I got out of him

that young Portly hasn’t learnt to swim very well yet, and I can see

he’s thinking of the weir. There’s a lot of water coming down still,

considering the time of the year, and the place always had a

fascination for the child. And then there are—well, traps and

things—_you_ know. Otter’s not the fellow to be nervous about any son

of his before it’s time. And now he _is_ nervous. When I left, he came

out with me—said he wanted some air, and talked about stretching his

legs. But I could see it wasn’t that, so I drew him out and pumped him,

and got it all from him at last. He was going to spend the night

watching by the ford. You know the place where the old ford used to be,

in by-gone days before they built the bridge?”

“I know it well,” said the Mole. “But why should Otter choose to watch

there?”

“Well, it seems that it was there he gave Portly his first

swimming-lesson,” continued the Rat. “From that shallow, gravelly spit

near the bank. And it was there he used to teach him fishing, and there

young Portly caught his first fish, of which he was so very proud. The

child loved the spot, and Otter thinks that if he came wandering back

from wherever he is—if he _is_ anywhere by this time, poor little

chap—he might make for the ford he was so fond of; or if he came across

it he’d remember it well, and stop there and play, perhaps. So Otter

goes there every night and watches—on the chance, you know, just on the

chance!”

They were silent for a time, both thinking of the same thing—the

lonely, heart-sore animal, crouched by the ford, watching and waiting,

the long night through—on the chance.

“Well, well,” said the Rat presently, “I suppose we ought to be

thinking about turning in.” But he never offered to move.

“Rat,” said the Mole, “I simply can’t go and turn in, and go to sleep,

and _do_ nothing, even though there doesn’t seem to be anything to be

done. We’ll get the boat out, and paddle up stream. The moon will be up

in an hour or so, and then we will search as well as we can—anyhow, it

will be better than going to bed and doing _nothing_.”

“Just what I was thinking myself,” said the Rat. “It’s not the sort of

night for bed anyhow; and daybreak is not so very far off, and then we

may pick up some news of him from early risers as we go along.”

They got the boat out, and the Rat took the sculls, paddling with

caution. Out in midstream, there was a clear, narrow track that faintly

reflected the sky; but wherever shadows fell on the water from bank,

bush, or tree, they were as solid to all appearance as the banks

themselves, and the Mole had to steer with judgment accordingly. Dark

and deserted as it was, the night was full of small noises, song and

chatter and rustling, telling of the busy little population who were up

and about, plying their trades and vocations through the night till

sunshine should fall on them at last and send them off to their

well-earned repose. The water’s own noises, too, were more apparent

than by day, its gurglings and “cloops” more unexpected and near at

hand; and constantly they started at what seemed a sudden clear call

from an actual articulate voice.

The line of the horizon was clear and hard against the sky, and in one

particular quarter it showed black against a silvery climbing

phosphorescence that grew and grew. At last, over the rim of the

waiting earth the moon lifted with slow majesty till it swung clear of

the horizon and rode off, free of moorings; and once more they began to

see surfaces—meadows wide-spread, and quiet gardens, and the river

itself from bank to bank, all softly disclosed, all washed clean of

mystery and terror, all radiant again as by day, but with a difference

that was tremendous. Their old haunts greeted them again in other

raiment, as if they had slipped away and put on this pure new apparel

and come quietly back, smiling as they shyly waited to see if they

would be recognised again under it.

Fastening their boat to a willow, the friends landed in this silent,

silver kingdom, and patiently explored the hedges, the hollow trees,

the runnels and their little culverts, the ditches and dry water-ways.

Embarking again and crossing over, they worked their way up the stream

in this manner, while the moon, serene and detached in a cloudless sky,

did what she could, though so far off, to help them in their quest;

till her hour came and she sank earthwards reluctantly, and left them,

and mystery once more held field and river.

Then a change began slowly to declare itself. The horizon became

clearer, field and tree came more into sight, and somehow with a

different look; the mystery began to drop away from them. A bird piped

suddenly, and was still; and a light breeze sprang up and set the reeds

and bulrushes rustling. Rat, who was in the stern of the boat, while

Mole sculled, sat up suddenly and listened with a passionate

intentness. Mole, who with gentle strokes was just keeping the boat

moving while he scanned the banks with care, looked at him with

curiosity.

“It’s gone!” sighed the Rat, sinking back in his seat again. “So

beautiful and strange and new. Since it was to end so soon, I almost

wish I had never heard it. For it has roused a longing in me that is

pain, and nothing seems worth while but just to hear that sound once

more and go on listening to it for ever. No! There it is again!” he

cried, alert once more. Entranced, he was silent for a long space,

spellbound.

“Now it passes on and I begin to lose it,” he said presently. “O Mole!

the beauty of it! The merry bubble and joy, the thin, clear, happy call

of the distant piping! Such music I never dreamed of, and the call in

it is stronger even than the music is sweet! Row on, Mole, row! For the

music and the call must be for us.”

The Mole, greatly wondering, obeyed. “I hear nothing myself,” he said,

“but the wind playing in the reeds and rushes and osiers.”

The Rat never answered, if indeed he heard. Rapt, transported,

trembling, he was possessed in all his senses by this new divine thing

that caught up his helpless soul and swung and dandled it, a powerless

but happy infant in a strong sustaining grasp.

In silence Mole rowed steadily, and soon they came to a point where the

river divided, a long backwater branching off to one side. With a

slight movement of his head Rat, who had long dropped the rudder-lines,

directed the rower to take the backwater. The creeping tide of light

gained and gained, and now they could see the colour of the flowers

that gemmed the water’s edge.

“Clearer and nearer still,” cried the Rat joyously. “Now you must

surely hear it! Ah—at last—I see you do!”

Breathless and transfixed the Mole stopped rowing as the liquid run of

that glad piping broke on him like a wave, caught him up, and possessed

him utterly. He saw the tears on his comrade’s cheeks, and bowed his

head and understood. For a space they hung there, brushed by the purple

loose-strife that fringed the bank; then the clear imperious summons

that marched hand-in-hand with the intoxicating melody imposed its will

on Mole, and mechanically he bent to his oars again. And the light grew

steadily stronger, but no birds sang as they were wont to do at the

approach of dawn; and but for the heavenly music all was marvellously

still.

On either side of them, as they glided onwards, the rich meadow-grass

seemed that morning of a freshness and a greenness unsurpassable. Never

had they noticed the roses so vivid, the willow-herb so riotous, the

meadow-sweet so odorous and pervading. Then the murmur of the

approaching weir began to hold the air, and they felt a consciousness

that they were nearing the end, whatever it might be, that surely

awaited their expedition.

A wide half-circle of foam and glinting lights and shining shoulders of

green water, the great weir closed the backwater from bank to bank,

troubled all the quiet surface with twirling eddies and floating

foam-streaks, and deadened all other sounds with its solemn and

soothing rumble. In midmost of the stream, embraced in the weir’s

shimmering arm-spread, a small island lay anchored, fringed close with

willow and silver birch and alder. Reserved, shy, but full of

significance, it hid whatever it might hold behind a veil, keeping it

till the hour should come, and, with the hour, those who were called

and chosen.

Slowly, but with no doubt or hesitation whatever, and in something of a

solemn expectancy, the two animals passed through the broken tumultuous

water and moored their boat at the flowery margin of the island. In

silence they landed, and pushed through the blossom and scented herbage

and undergrowth that led up to the level ground, till they stood on a

little lawn of a marvellous green, set round with Nature’s own

orchard-trees—crab-apple, wild cherry, and sloe.

“This is the place of my song-dream, the place the music played to me,”

whispered the Rat, as if in a trance. “Here, in this holy place, here

if anywhere, surely we shall find Him!”

Then suddenly the Mole felt a great Awe fall upon him, an awe that

turned his muscles to water, bowed his head, and rooted his feet to the

ground. It was no panic terror—indeed he felt wonderfully at peace and

happy—but it was an awe that smote and held him and, without seeing, he

knew it could only mean that some august Presence was very, very near.

With difficulty he turned to look for his friend and saw him at his

side cowed, stricken, and trembling violently. And still there was

utter silence in the populous bird-haunted branches around them; and

still the light grew and grew.

Perhaps he would never have dared to raise his eyes, but that, though

the piping was now hushed, the call and the summons seemed still

dominant and imperious. He might not refuse, were Death himself waiting

to strike him instantly, once he had looked with mortal eye on things

rightly kept hidden. Trembling he obeyed, and raised his humble head;

and then, in that utter clearness of the imminent dawn, while Nature,

flushed with fullness of incredible colour, seemed to hold her breath

for the event, he looked in the very eyes of the Friend and Helper; saw

the backward sweep of the curved horns, gleaming in the growing

daylight; saw the stern, hooked nose between the kindly eyes that were

looking down on them humourously, while the bearded mouth broke into a

half-smile at the corners; saw the rippling muscles on the arm that lay

across the broad chest, the long supple hand still holding the

pan-pipes only just fallen away from the parted lips; saw the splendid

curves of the shaggy limbs disposed in majestic ease on the sward; saw,

last of all, nestling between his very hooves, sleeping soundly in

entire peace and contentment, the little, round, podgy, childish form

of the baby otter. All this he saw, for one moment breathless and

intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived;

and still, as he lived, he wondered.

“Rat!” he found breath to whisper, shaking. “Are you afraid?”

“Afraid?” murmured the Rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love.

“Afraid! Of _Him?_ O, never, never! And yet—and yet—O, Mole, I am

afraid!”

Then the two animals, crouching to the earth, bowed their heads and did

worship.

Sudden and magnificent, the sun’s broad golden disc showed itself over

the horizon facing them; and the first rays, shooting across the level

water-meadows, took the animals full in the eyes and dazzled them. When

they were able to look once more, the Vision had vanished, and the air

was full of the carol of birds that hailed the dawn.

As they stared blankly in dumb misery deepening as they slowly realised

all they had seen and all they had lost, a capricious little breeze,

dancing up from the surface of the water, tossed the aspens, shook the

dewy roses and blew lightly and caressingly in their faces; and with

its soft touch came instant oblivion. For this is the last best gift

that the kindly demi-god is careful to bestow on those to whom he has

revealed himself in their helping: the gift of forgetfulness. Lest the

awful remembrance should remain and grow, and overshadow mirth and

pleasure, and the great haunting memory should spoil all the

after-lives of little animals helped out of difficulties, in order that

they should be happy and lighthearted as before.

Mole rubbed his eyes and stared at Rat, who was looking about him in a

puzzled sort of way. “I beg your pardon; what did you say, Rat?” he

asked.

“I think I was only remarking,” said Rat slowly, “that this was the

right sort of place, and that here, if anywhere, we should find him.

And look! Why, there he is, the little fellow!” And with a cry of

delight he ran towards the slumbering Portly.

But Mole stood still a moment, held in thought. As one wakened suddenly

from a beautiful dream, who struggles to recall it, and can re-capture

nothing but a dim sense of the beauty of it, the beauty! Till that,

too, fades away in its turn, and the dreamer bitterly accepts the hard,

cold waking and all its penalties; so Mole, after struggling with his

memory for a brief space, shook his head sadly and followed the Rat.

Portly woke up with a joyous squeak, and wriggled with pleasure at the

sight of his father’s friends, who had played with him so often in past

days. In a moment, however, his face grew blank, and he fell to hunting

round in a circle with pleading whine. As a child that has fallen

happily asleep in its nurse’s arms, and wakes to find itself alone and

laid in a strange place, and searches corners and cupboards, and runs

from room to room, despair growing silently in its heart, even so

Portly searched the island and searched, dogged and unwearying, till at

last the black moment came for giving it up, and sitting down and

crying bitterly.

The Mole ran quickly to comfort the little animal; but Rat, lingering,

looked long and doubtfully at certain hoof-marks deep in the sward.

“Some—great—animal—has been here,” he murmured slowly and thoughtfully;

and stood musing, musing; his mind strangely stirred.

“Come along, Rat!” called the Mole. “Think of poor Otter, waiting up

there by the ford!”

Portly had soon been comforted by the promise of a treat—a jaunt on the

river in Mr. Rat’s real boat; and the two animals conducted him to the

water’s side, placed him securely between them in the bottom of the

boat, and paddled off down the backwater. The sun was fully up by now,

and hot on them, birds sang lustily and without restraint, and flowers

smiled and nodded from either bank, but somehow—so thought the

animals—with less of richness and blaze of colour than they seemed to

remember seeing quite recently somewhere—they wondered where.

The main river reached again, they turned the boat’s head upstream,

towards the point where they knew their friend was keeping his lonely

vigil. As they drew near the familiar ford, the Mole took the boat in

to the bank, and they lifted Portly out and set him on his legs on the

tow-path, gave him his marching orders and a friendly farewell pat on

the back, and shoved out into mid-stream. They watched the little

animal as he waddled along the path contentedly and with importance;

watched him till they saw his muzzle suddenly lift and his waddle break

into a clumsy amble as he quickened his pace with shrill whines and

wriggles of recognition. Looking up the river, they could see Otter

start up, tense and rigid, from out of the shallows where he crouched

in dumb patience, and could hear his amazed and joyous bark as he

bounded up through the osiers on to the path. Then the Mole, with a

strong pull on one oar, swung the boat round and let the full stream

bear them down again whither it would, their quest now happily ended.

“I feel strangely tired, Rat,” said the Mole, leaning wearily over his

oars as the boat drifted. “It’s being up all night, you’ll say,

perhaps; but that’s nothing. We do as much half the nights of the week,

at this time of the year. No; I feel as if I had been through something

very exciting and rather terrible, and it was just over; and yet

nothing particular has happened.”

“Or something very surprising and splendid and beautiful,” murmured the

Rat, leaning back and closing his eyes. “I feel just as you do, Mole;

simply dead tired, though not body tired. It’s lucky we’ve got the

stream with us, to take us home. Isn’t it jolly to feel the sun again,

soaking into one’s bones! And hark to the wind playing in the reeds!”

“It’s like music—far away music,” said the Mole nodding drowsily.

“So I was thinking,” murmured the Rat, dreamful and languid.

“Dance-music—the lilting sort that runs on without a stop—but with

words in it, too—it passes into words and out of them again—I catch

them at intervals—then it is dance-music once more, and then nothing

but the reeds’ soft thin whispering.”

“You hear better than I,” said the Mole sadly. “I cannot catch the

words.”

“Let me try and give you them,” said the Rat softly, his eyes still

closed. “Now it is turning into words again—faint but clear—_Lest the

awe should dwell—And turn your frolic to fret—You shall look on my

power at the helping hour—But then you shall forget!_ Now the reeds

take it up—_forget, forget_, they sigh, and it dies away in a rustle

and a whisper. Then the voice returns—

“_Lest limbs be reddened and rent—I spring the trap that is set—As I

loose the snare you may glimpse me there—For surely you shall forget!_

Row nearer, Mole, nearer to the reeds! It is hard to catch, and grows

each minute fainter.

“_Helper and healer, I cheer—Small waifs in the woodland wet—Strays I

find in it, wounds I bind in it—Bidding them all forget!_ Nearer, Mole,

nearer! No, it is no good; the song has died away into reed-talk.”

“But what do the words mean?” asked the wondering Mole.

“That I do not know,” said the Rat simply. “I passed them on to you as

they reached me. Ah! now they return again, and this time full and

clear! This time, at last, it is the real, the unmistakable thing,

simple—passionate—perfect——”

“Well, let’s have it, then,” said the Mole, after he had waited

patiently for a few minutes, half-dozing in the hot sun.

But no answer came. He looked, and understood the silence. With a smile

of much happiness on his face, and something of a listening look still

lingering there, the weary Rat was fast asleep.

VIII.

TOAD’S ADVENTURES

When Toad found himself immured in a dank and noisome dungeon, and knew

that all the grim darkness of a medieval fortress lay between him and

the outer world of sunshine and well-metalled high roads where he had

lately been so happy, disporting himself as if he had bought up every

road in England, he flung himself at full length on the floor, and shed

bitter tears, and abandoned himself to dark despair. “This is the end

of everything” (he said), “at least it is the end of the career of

Toad, which is the same thing; the popular and handsome Toad, the rich

and hospitable Toad, the Toad so free and careless and debonair! How

can I hope to be ever set at large again” (he said), “who have been

imprisoned so justly for stealing so handsome a motor-car in such an

audacious manner, and for such lurid and imaginative cheek, bestowed

upon such a number of fat, red-faced policemen!” (Here his sobs choked

him.) “Stupid animal that I was” (he said), “now I must languish in

this dungeon, till people who were proud to say they knew me, have

forgotten the very name of Toad! O wise old Badger!” (he said), “O

clever, intelligent Rat and sensible Mole! What sound judgments, what a

knowledge of men and matters you possess! O unhappy and forsaken Toad!”

With lamentations such as these he passed his days and nights for

several weeks, refusing his meals or intermediate light refreshments,

though the grim and ancient gaoler, knowing that Toad’s pockets were

well lined, frequently pointed out that many comforts, and indeed

luxuries, could by arrangement be sent in—at a price—from outside.

Now the gaoler had a daughter, a pleasant wench and good-hearted, who

assisted her father in the lighter duties of his post. She was

particularly fond of animals, and, besides her canary, whose cage hung

on a nail in the massive wall of the keep by day, to the great

annoyance of prisoners who relished an after-dinner nap, and was

shrouded in an antimacassar on the parlour table at night, she kept

several piebald mice and a restless revolving squirrel. This

kind-hearted girl, pitying the misery of Toad, said to her father one

day, “Father! I can’t bear to see that poor beast so unhappy, and

getting so thin! You let me have the managing of him. You know how fond

of animals I am. I’ll make him eat from my hand, and sit up, and do all

sorts of things.”

Her father replied that she could do what she liked with him. He was

tired of Toad, and his sulks and his airs and his meanness. So that day

she went on her errand of mercy, and knocked at the door of Toad’s

cell.

“Now, cheer up, Toad,” she said, coaxingly, on entering, “and sit up

and dry your eyes and be a sensible animal. And do try and eat a bit of

dinner. See, I’ve brought you some of mine, hot from the oven!”

It was bubble-and-squeak, between two plates, and its fragrance filled

the narrow cell. The penetrating smell of cabbage reached the nose of

Toad as he lay prostrate in his misery on the floor, and gave him the

idea for a moment that perhaps life was not such a blank and desperate

thing as he had imagined. But still he wailed, and kicked with his

legs, and refused to be comforted. So the wise girl retired for the

time, but, of course, a good deal of the smell of hot cabbage remained

behind, as it will do, and Toad, between his sobs, sniffed and

reflected, and gradually began to think new and inspiring thoughts: of

chivalry, and poetry, and deeds still to be done; of broad meadows, and

cattle browsing in them, raked by sun and wind; of kitchen-gardens, and

straight herb-borders, and warm snap-dragon beset by bees; and of the

comforting clink of dishes set down on the table at Toad Hall, and the

scrape of chair-legs on the floor as every one pulled himself close up

to his work. The air of the narrow cell took a rosy tinge; he began to

think of his friends, and how they would surely be able to do

something; of lawyers, and how they would have enjoyed his case, and

what an ass he had been not to get in a few; and lastly, he thought of

his own great cleverness and resource, and all that he was capable of

if he only gave his great mind to it; and the cure was almost complete.

When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a

cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot

buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter

running through the holes in it in great golden drops, like honey from

the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad,

and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on

bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings,

when one’s ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the

fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy

canaries. Toad sat up on end once more, dried his eyes, sipped his tea

and munched his toast, and soon began talking freely about himself, and

the house he lived in, and his doings there, and how important he was,

and what a lot his friends thought of him.

The gaoler’s daughter saw that the topic was doing him as much good as

the tea, as indeed it was, and encouraged him to go on.

“Tell me about Toad Hall,” said she. “It sounds beautiful.”

“Toad Hall,” said the Toad proudly, “is an eligible self-contained

gentleman’s residence very unique; dating in part from the fourteenth

century, but replete with every modern convenience. Up-to-date

sanitation. Five minutes from church, post-office, and golf-links,

Suitable for——”

“Bless the animal,” said the girl, laughing, “I don’t want to _take_

it. Tell me something _real_ about it. But first wait till I fetch you

some more tea and toast.”

She tripped away, and presently returned with a fresh trayful; and

Toad, pitching into the toast with avidity, his spirits quite restored

to their usual level, told her about the boathouse, and the fish-pond,

and the old walled kitchen-garden; and about the pig-styes, and the

stables, and the pigeon-house, and the hen-house; and about the dairy,

and the wash-house, and the china-cupboards, and the linen-presses (she

liked that bit especially); and about the banqueting-hall, and the fun

they had there when the other animals were gathered round the table and

Toad was at his best, singing songs, telling stories, carrying on

generally. Then she wanted to know about his animal-friends, and was

very interested in all he had to tell her about them and how they

lived, and what they did to pass their time. Of course, she did not say

she was fond of animals as _pets_, because she had the sense to see

that Toad would be extremely offended. When she said good night, having

filled his water-jug and shaken up his straw for him, Toad was very

much the same sanguine, self-satisfied animal that he had been of old.

He sang a little song or two, of the sort he used to sing at his

dinner-parties, curled himself up in the straw, and had an excellent

night’s rest and the pleasantest of dreams.

They had many interesting talks together, after that, as the dreary

days went on; and the gaoler’s daughter grew very sorry for Toad, and

thought it a great shame that a poor little animal should be locked up

in prison for what seemed to her a very trivial offence. Toad, of

course, in his vanity, thought that her interest in him proceeded from

a growing tenderness; and he could not help half-regretting that the

social gulf between them was so very wide, for she was a comely lass,

and evidently admired him very much.

One morning the girl was very thoughtful, and answered at random, and

did not seem to Toad to be paying proper attention to his witty sayings

and sparkling comments.

“Toad,” she said presently, “just listen, please. I have an aunt who is

a washerwoman.”

“There, there,” said Toad, graciously and affably, “never mind; think

no more about it. _I_ have several aunts who _ought_ to be

washerwomen.”

“Do be quiet a minute, Toad,” said the girl. “You talk too much, that’s

your chief fault, and I’m trying to think, and you hurt my head. As I

said, I have an aunt who is a washerwoman; she does the washing for all

the prisoners in this castle—we try to keep any paying business of that

sort in the family, you understand. She takes out the washing on Monday

morning, and brings it in on Friday evening. This is a Thursday. Now,

this is what occurs to me: you’re very rich—at least you’re always

telling me so—and she’s very poor. A few pounds wouldn’t make any

difference to you, and it would mean a lot to her. Now, I think if she

were properly approached—squared, I believe is the word you animals

use—you could come to some arrangement by which she would let you have

her dress and bonnet and so on, and you could escape from the castle as

the official washerwoman. You’re very alike in many

respects—particularly about the figure.”

“We’re _not_,” said the Toad in a huff. “I have a very elegant

figure—for what I am.”

“So has my aunt,” replied the girl, “for what _she_ is. But have it

your own way. You horrid, proud, ungrateful animal, when I’m sorry for

you, and trying to help you!”

“Yes, yes, that’s all right; thank you very much indeed,” said the Toad

hurriedly. “But look here! you wouldn’t surely have Mr. Toad of Toad

Hall, going about the country disguised as a washerwoman!”

“Then you can stop here as a Toad,” replied the girl with much spirit.

“I suppose you want to go off in a coach-and-four!”

Honest Toad was always ready to admit himself in the wrong. “You are a

good, kind, clever girl,” he said, “and I am indeed a proud and a

stupid toad. Introduce me to your worthy aunt, if you will be so kind,

and I have no doubt that the excellent lady and I will be able to

arrange terms satisfactory to both parties.”

Next evening the girl ushered her aunt into Toad’s cell, bearing his

week’s washing pinned up in a towel. The old lady had been prepared

beforehand for the interview, and the sight of certain gold sovereigns

that Toad had thoughtfully placed on the table in full view practically

completed the matter and left little further to discuss. In return for

his cash, Toad received a cotton print gown, an apron, a shawl, and a

rusty black bonnet; the only stipulation the old lady made being that

she should be gagged and bound and dumped down in a corner. By this not

very convincing artifice, she explained, aided by picturesque fiction

which she could supply herself, she hoped to retain her situation, in

spite of the suspicious appearance of things.

Toad was delighted with the suggestion. It would enable him to leave

the prison in some style, and with his reputation for being a desperate

and dangerous fellow untarnished; and he readily helped the gaoler’s

daughter to make her aunt appear as much as possible the victim of

circumstances over which she had no control.

“Now it’s your turn, Toad,” said the girl. “Take off that coat and

waistcoat of yours; you’re fat enough as it is.”

Shaking with laughter, she proceeded to “hook-and-eye” him into the

cotton print gown, arranged the shawl with a professional fold, and

tied the strings of the rusty bonnet under his chin.

“You’re the very image of her,” she giggled, “only I’m sure you never

looked half so respectable in all your life before. Now, good-bye,

Toad, and good luck. Go straight down the way you came up; and if any

one says anything to you, as they probably will, being but men, you can

chaff back a bit, of course, but remember you’re a widow woman, quite

alone in the world, with a character to lose.”

With a quaking heart, but as firm a footstep as he could command, Toad

set forth cautiously on what seemed to be a most hare-brained and

hazardous undertaking; but he was soon agreeably surprised to find how

easy everything was made for him, and a little humbled at the thought

that both his popularity, and the sex that seemed to inspire it, were

really another’s. The washerwoman’s squat figure in its familiar cotton

print seemed a passport for every barred door and grim gateway; even

when he hesitated, uncertain as to the right turning to take, he found

himself helped out of his difficulty by the warder at the next gate,

anxious to be off to his tea, summoning him to come along sharp and not

keep him waiting there all night. The chaff and the humourous sallies

to which he was subjected, and to which, of course, he had to provide

prompt and effective reply, formed, indeed, his chief danger; for Toad

was an animal with a strong sense of his own dignity, and the chaff was

mostly (he thought) poor and clumsy, and the humour of the sallies

entirely lacking. However, he kept his temper, though with great

difficulty, suited his retorts to his company and his supposed

character, and did his best not to overstep the limits of good taste.

It seemed hours before he crossed the last courtyard, rejected the

pressing invitations from the last guardroom, and dodged the outspread

arms of the last warder, pleading with simulated passion for just one

farewell embrace. But at last he heard the wicket-gate in the great

outer door click behind him, felt the fresh air of the outer world upon

his anxious brow, and knew that he was free!

Dizzy with the easy success of his daring exploit, he walked quickly

towards the lights of the town, not knowing in the least what he should

do next, only quite certain of one thing, that he must remove himself

as quickly as possible from the neighbourhood where the lady he was

forced to represent was so well-known and so popular a character.

As he walked along, considering, his attention was caught by some red

and green lights a little way off, to one side of the town, and the

sound of the puffing and snorting of engines and the banging of shunted

trucks fell on his ear. “Aha!” he thought, “this is a piece of luck! A

railway station is the thing I want most in the whole world at this

moment; and what’s more, I needn’t go through the town to get it, and

shan’t have to support this humiliating character by repartees which,

though thoroughly effective, do not assist one’s sense of

self-respect.”

He made his way to the station accordingly, consulted a time-table, and

found that a train, bound more or less in the direction of his home,

was due to start in half-an-hour. “More luck!” said Toad, his spirits

rising rapidly, and went off to the booking-office to buy his ticket.

He gave the name of the station that he knew to be nearest to the

village of which Toad Hall was the principal feature, and mechanically

put his fingers, in search of the necessary money, where his waistcoat

pocket should have been. But here the cotton gown, which had nobly

stood by him so far, and which he had basely forgotten, intervened, and

frustrated his efforts. In a sort of nightmare he struggled with the

strange uncanny thing that seemed to hold his hands, turn all muscular

strivings to water, and laugh at him all the time; while other

travellers, forming up in a line behind, waited with impatience, making

suggestions of more or less value and comments of more or less

stringency and point. At last—somehow—he never rightly understood

how—he burst the barriers, attained the goal, arrived at where all

waistcoat pockets are eternally situated, and found—not only no money,

but no pocket to hold it, and no waistcoat to hold the pocket!

To his horror he recollected that he had left both coat and waistcoat

behind him in his cell, and with them his pocket-book, money, keys,

watch, matches, pencil-case—all that makes life worth living, all that

distinguishes the many-pocketed animal, the lord of creation, from the

inferior one-pocketed or no-pocketed productions that hop or trip about

permissively, unequipped for the real contest.

In his misery he made one desperate effort to carry the thing off, and,

with a return to his fine old manner—a blend of the Squire and the

College Don—he said, “Look here! I find I’ve left my purse behind. Just

give me that ticket, will you, and I’ll send the money on to-morrow?

I’m well-known in these parts.”

The clerk stared at him and the rusty black bonnet a moment, and then

laughed. “I should think you were pretty well known in these parts,” he

said, “if you’ve tried this game on often. Here, stand away from the

window, please, madam; you’re obstructing the other passengers!”

An old gentleman who had been prodding him in the back for some moments

here thrust him away, and, what was worse, addressed him as his good

woman, which angered Toad more than anything that had occurred that

evening.

Baffled and full of despair, he wandered blindly down the platform

where the train was standing, and tears trickled down each side of his

nose. It was hard, he thought, to be within sight of safety and almost

of home, and to be baulked by the want of a few wretched shillings and

by the pettifogging mistrustfulness of paid officials. Very soon his

escape would be discovered, the hunt would be up, he would be caught,

reviled, loaded with chains, dragged back again to prison and

bread-and-water and straw; his guards and penalties would be doubled;

and O, what sarcastic remarks the girl would make! What was to be done?

He was not swift of foot; his figure was unfortunately recognisable.

Could he not squeeze under the seat of a carriage? He had seen this

method adopted by schoolboys, when the journey-money provided by

thoughtful parents had been diverted to other and better ends. As he

pondered, he found himself opposite the engine, which was being oiled,

wiped, and generally caressed by its affectionate driver, a burly man

with an oil-can in one hand and a lump of cotton-waste in the other.

“Hullo, mother!” said the engine-driver, “what’s the trouble? You don’t

look particularly cheerful.”

“O, sir!” said Toad, crying afresh, “I am a poor unhappy washerwoman,

and I’ve lost all my money, and can’t pay for a ticket, and I _must_

get home to-night somehow, and whatever I am to do I don’t know. O

dear, O dear!”

“That’s a bad business, indeed,” said the engine-driver reflectively.

“Lost your money—and can’t get home—and got some kids, too, waiting for

you, I dare say?”

“Any amount of ’em,” sobbed Toad. “And they’ll be hungry—and playing

with matches—and upsetting lamps, the little innocents!—and

quarrelling, and going on generally. O dear, O dear!”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said the good engine-driver.

“You’re a washerwoman to your trade, says you. Very well, that’s that.

And I’m an engine-driver, as you well may see, and there’s no denying

it’s terribly dirty work. Uses up a power of shirts, it does, till my

missus is fair tired of washing of ’em. If you’ll wash a few shirts for

me when you get home, and send ’em along, I’ll give you a ride on my

engine. It’s against the Company’s regulations, but we’re not so very

particular in these out-of-the-way parts.”

The Toad’s misery turned into rapture as he eagerly scrambled up into

the cab of the engine. Of course, he had never washed a shirt in his

life, and couldn’t if he tried and, anyhow, he wasn’t going to begin;

but he thought: “When I get safely home to Toad Hall, and have money

again, and pockets to put it in, I will send the engine-driver enough

to pay for quite a quantity of washing, and that will be the same

thing, or better.”

The guard waved his welcome flag, the engine-driver whistled in

cheerful response, and the train moved out of the station. As the speed

increased, and the Toad could see on either side of him real fields,

and trees, and hedges, and cows, and horses, all flying past him, and

as he thought how every minute was bringing him nearer to Toad Hall,

and sympathetic friends, and money to chink in his pocket, and a soft

bed to sleep in, and good things to eat, and praise and admiration at

the recital of his adventures and his surpassing cleverness, he began

to skip up and down and shout and sing snatches of song, to the great

astonishment of the engine-driver, who had come across washerwomen

before, at long intervals, but never one at all like this.

They had covered many and many a mile, and Toad was already considering

what he would have for supper as soon as he got home, when he noticed

that the engine-driver, with a puzzled expression on his face, was

leaning over the side of the engine and listening hard. Then he saw him

climb on to the coals and gaze out over the top of the train; then he

returned and said to Toad: “It’s very strange; we’re the last train

running in this direction to-night, yet I could be sworn that I heard

another following us!”

Toad ceased his frivolous antics at once. He became grave and

depressed, and a dull pain in the lower part of his spine,

communicating itself to his legs, made him want to sit down and try

desperately not to think of all the possibilities.

By this time the moon was shining brightly, and the engine-driver,

steadying himself on the coal, could command a view of the line behind

them for a long distance.

Presently he called out, “I can see it clearly now! It is an engine, on

our rails, coming along at a great pace! It looks as if we were being

pursued!”

The miserable Toad, crouching in the coal-dust, tried hard to think of

something to do, with dismal want of success.

“They are gaining on us fast!” cried the engine-driver. And the engine

is crowded with the queerest lot of people! Men like ancient warders,

waving halberds; policemen in their helmets, waving truncheons; and

shabbily dressed men in pot-hats, obvious and unmistakable

plain-clothes detectives even at this distance, waving revolvers and

walking-sticks; all waving, and all shouting the same thing—‘Stop,

stop, stop!’”

Then Toad fell on his knees among the coals and, raising his clasped

paws in supplication, cried, “Save me, only save me, dear kind Mr.

Engine-driver, and I will confess everything! I am not the simple

washerwoman I seem to be! I have no children waiting for me, innocent

or otherwise! I am a toad—the well-known and popular Mr. Toad, a landed

proprietor; I have just escaped, by my great daring and cleverness,

from a loathsome dungeon into which my enemies had flung me; and if

those fellows on that engine recapture me, it will be chains and

bread-and-water and straw and misery once more for poor, unhappy,

innocent Toad!”

The engine-driver looked down upon him very sternly, and said, “Now

tell the truth; what were you put in prison for?”

“It was nothing very much,” said poor Toad, colouring deeply. “I only

borrowed a motorcar while the owners were at lunch; they had no need of

it at the time. I didn’t mean to steal it, really; but

people—especially magistrates—take such harsh views of thoughtless and

high-spirited actions.”

The engine-driver looked very grave and said, “I fear that you have

been indeed a wicked toad, and by rights I ought to give you up to

offended justice. But you are evidently in sore trouble and distress,

so I will not desert you. I don’t hold with motor-cars, for one thing;

and I don’t hold with being ordered about by policemen when I’m on my

own engine, for another. And the sight of an animal in tears always

makes me feel queer and softhearted. So cheer up, Toad! I’ll do my

best, and we may beat them yet!”

They piled on more coals, shovelling furiously; the furnace roared, the

sparks flew, the engine leapt and swung but still their pursuers slowly

gained. The engine-driver, with a sigh, wiped his brow with a handful

of cotton-waste, and said, “I’m afraid it’s no good, Toad. You see,

they are running light, and they have the better engine. There’s just

one thing left for us to do, and it’s your only chance, so attend very

carefully to what I tell you. A short way ahead of us is a long tunnel,

and on the other side of that the line passes through a thick wood.

Now, I will put on all the speed I can while we are running through the

tunnel, but the other fellows will slow down a bit, naturally, for fear

of an accident. When we are through, I will shut off steam and put on

brakes as hard as I can, and the moment it’s safe to do so you must

jump and hide in the wood, before they get through the tunnel and see

you. Then I will go full speed ahead again, and they can chase me if

they like, for as long as they like, and as far as they like. Now mind

and be ready to jump when I tell you!”

They piled on more coals, and the train shot into the tunnel, and the

engine rushed and roared and rattled, till at last they shot out at the

other end into fresh air and the peaceful moonlight, and saw the wood

lying dark and helpful upon either side of the line. The driver shut

off steam and put on brakes, the Toad got down on the step, and as the

train slowed down to almost a walking pace he heard the driver call

out, “Now, jump!”

Toad jumped, rolled down a short embankment, picked himself up unhurt,

scrambled into the wood and hid.

Peeping out, he saw his train get up speed again and disappear at a

great pace. Then out of the tunnel burst the pursuing engine, roaring

and whistling, her motley crew waving their various weapons and

shouting, “Stop! stop! stop!” When they were past, the Toad had a

hearty laugh—for the first time since he was thrown into prison.

But he soon stopped laughing when he came to consider that it was now

very late and dark and cold, and he was in an unknown wood, with no

money and no chance of supper, and still far from friends and home; and

the dead silence of everything, after the roar and rattle of the train,

was something of a shock. He dared not leave the shelter of the trees,

so he struck into the wood, with the idea of leaving the railway as far

as possible behind him.

After so many weeks within walls, he found the wood strange and

unfriendly and inclined, he thought, to make fun of him. Night-jars,

sounding their mechanical rattle, made him think that the wood was full

of searching warders, closing in on him. An owl, swooping noiselessly

towards him, brushed his shoulder with its wing, making him jump with

the horrid certainty that it was a hand; then flitted off, moth-like,

laughing its low ho! ho! ho; which Toad thought in very poor taste.

Once he met a fox, who stopped, looked him up and down in a sarcastic

sort of way, and said, “Hullo, washerwoman! Half a pair of socks and a

pillow-case short this week! Mind it doesn’t occur again!” and

swaggered off, sniggering. Toad looked about for a stone to throw at

him, but could not succeed in finding one, which vexed him more than

anything. At last, cold, hungry, and tired out, he sought the shelter

of a hollow tree, where with branches and dead leaves he made himself

as comfortable a bed as he could, and slept soundly till the morning.

IX.

WAYFARERS ALL

The Water Rat was restless, and he did not exactly know why. To all

appearance the summer’s pomp was still at fullest height, and although

in the tilled acres green had given way to gold, though rowans were

reddening, and the woods were dashed here and there with a tawny

fierceness, yet light and warmth and colour were still present in

undiminished measure, clean of any chilly premonitions of the passing

year. But the constant chorus of the orchards and hedges had shrunk to

a casual evensong from a few yet unwearied performers; the robin was

beginning to assert himself once more; and there was a feeling in the

air of change and departure. The cuckoo, of course, had long been

silent; but many another feathered friend, for months a part of the

familiar landscape and its small society, was missing too and it seemed

that the ranks thinned steadily day by day. Rat, ever observant of all

winged movement, saw that it was taking daily a southing tendency; and

even as he lay in bed at night he thought he could make out, passing in

the darkness overhead, the beat and quiver of impatient pinions,

obedient to the peremptory call.

Nature’s Grand Hotel has its Season, like the others. As the guests one

by one pack, pay, and depart, and the seats at the _table-d’hôte_

shrink pitifully at each succeeding meal; as suites of rooms are

closed, carpets taken up, and waiters sent away; those boarders who are

staying on, _en pension_, until the next year’s full re-opening, cannot

help being somewhat affected by all these flittings and farewells, this

eager discussion of plans, routes, and fresh quarters, this daily

shrinkage in the stream of comradeship. One gets unsettled, depressed,

and inclined to be querulous. Why this craving for change? Why not stay

on quietly here, like us, and be jolly? You don’t know this hotel out

of the season, and what fun we have among ourselves, we fellows who

remain and see the whole interesting year out. All very true, no doubt

the others always reply; we quite envy you—and some other year

perhaps—but just now we have engagements—and there’s the bus at the

door—our time is up! So they depart, with a smile and a nod, and we

miss them, and feel resentful. The Rat was a self-sufficing sort of

animal, rooted to the land, and, whoever went, he stayed; still, he

could not help noticing what was in the air, and feeling some of its

influence in his bones.

It was difficult to settle down to anything seriously, with all this

flitting going on. Leaving the water-side, where rushes stood thick and

tall in a stream that was becoming sluggish and low, he wandered

country-wards, crossed a field or two of pasturage already looking

dusty and parched, and thrust into the great sea of wheat, yellow,

wavy, and murmurous, full of quiet motion and small whisperings. Here

he often loved to wander, through the forest of stiff strong stalks

that carried their own golden sky away over his head—a sky that was

always dancing, shimmering, softly talking; or swaying strongly to the

passing wind and recovering itself with a toss and a merry laugh. Here,

too, he had many small friends, a society complete in itself, leading

full and busy lives, but always with a spare moment to gossip, and

exchange news with a visitor. Today, however, though they were civil

enough, the field-mice and harvest-mice seemed preoccupied. Many were

digging and tunnelling busily; others, gathered together in small

groups, examined plans and drawings of small flats, stated to be

desirable and compact, and situated conveniently near the Stores. Some

were hauling out dusty trunks and dress-baskets, others were already

elbow-deep packing their belongings; while everywhere piles and bundles

of wheat, oats, barley, beech-mast and nuts, lay about ready for

transport.

“Here’s old Ratty!” they cried as soon as they saw him. “Come and bear

a hand, Rat, and don’t stand about idle!”

“What sort of games are you up to?” said the Water Rat severely. “You

know it isn’t time to be thinking of winter quarters yet, by a long

way!”

“O yes, we know that,” explained a field-mouse rather shamefacedly;

“but it’s always as well to be in good time, isn’t it? We really _must_

get all the furniture and baggage and stores moved out of this before

those horrid machines begin clicking round the fields; and then, you

know, the best flats get picked up so quickly nowadays, and if you’re

late you have to put up with _anything_; and they want such a lot of

doing up, too, before they’re fit to move into. Of course, we’re early,

we know that; but we’re only just making a start.”

“O, bother _starts_,” said the Rat. “It’s a splendid day. Come for a

row, or a stroll along the hedges, or a picnic in the woods, or

something.”

“Well, I _think_ not _to-day_, thank you,” replied the field-mouse

hurriedly. “Perhaps some _other_ day—when we’ve more _time_——”

The Rat, with a snort of contempt, swung round to go, tripped over a

hat-box, and fell, with undignified remarks.

“If people would be more careful,” said a field-mouse rather stiffly,

“and look where they’re going, people wouldn’t hurt themselves—and

forget themselves. Mind that hold-all, Rat! You’d better sit down

somewhere. In an hour or two we may be more free to attend to you.”

“You won’t be ‘free’ as you call it much this side of Christmas, I can

see that,” retorted the Rat grumpily, as he picked his way out of the

field.

He returned somewhat despondently to his river again—his faithful,

steady-going old river, which never packed up, flitted, or went into

winter quarters.

In the osiers which fringed the bank he spied a swallow sitting.

Presently it was joined by another, and then by a third; and the birds,

fidgeting restlessly on their bough, talked together earnestly and low.

“What, _already_,” said the Rat, strolling up to them. “What’s the

hurry? I call it simply ridiculous.”

“O, we’re not off yet, if that’s what you mean,” replied the first

swallow. “We’re only making plans and arranging things. Talking it

over, you know—what route we’re taking this year, and where we’ll stop,

and so on. That’s half the fun!”

“Fun?” said the Rat; “now that’s just what I don’t understand. If

you’ve _got_ to leave this pleasant place, and your friends who will

miss you, and your snug homes that you’ve just settled into, why, when

the hour strikes I’ve no doubt you’ll go bravely, and face all the

trouble and discomfort and change and newness, and make believe that

you’re not very unhappy. But to want to talk about it, or even think

about it, till you really need——”

“No, you don’t understand, naturally,” said the second swallow. “First,

we feel it stirring within us, a sweet unrest; then back come the

recollections one by one, like homing pigeons. They flutter through our

dreams at night, they fly with us in our wheelings and circlings by

day. We hunger to inquire of each other, to compare notes and assure

ourselves that it was all really true, as one by one the scents and

sounds and names of long-forgotten places come gradually back and

beckon to us.”

“Couldn’t you stop on for just this year?” suggested the Water Rat,

wistfully. “We’ll all do our best to make you feel at home. You’ve no

idea what good times we have here, while you are far away.”

“I tried ‘stopping on’ one year,” said the third swallow. “I had grown

so fond of the place that when the time came I hung back and let the

others go on without me. For a few weeks it was all well enough, but

afterwards, O the weary length of the nights! The shivering, sunless

days! The air so clammy and chill, and not an insect in an acre of it!

No, it was no good; my courage broke down, and one cold, stormy night I

took wing, flying well inland on account of the strong easterly gales.

It was snowing hard as I beat through the passes of the great

mountains, and I had a stiff fight to win through; but never shall I

forget the blissful feeling of the hot sun again on my back as I sped

down to the lakes that lay so blue and placid below me, and the taste

of my first fat insect! The past was like a bad dream; the future was

all happy holiday as I moved southwards week by week, easily, lazily,

lingering as long as I dared, but always heeding the call! No, I had

had my warning; never again did I think of disobedience.”

“Ah, yes, the call of the South, of the South!” twittered the other two

dreamily. “Its songs its hues, its radiant air! O, do you remember——”

and, forgetting the Rat, they slid into passionate reminiscence, while

he listened fascinated, and his heart burned within him. In himself,

too, he knew that it was vibrating at last, that chord hitherto dormant

and unsuspected. The mere chatter of these southern-bound birds, their

pale and second-hand reports, had yet power to awaken this wild new

sensation and thrill him through and through with it; what would one

moment of the real thing work in him—one passionate touch of the real

southern sun, one waft of the authentic odor? With closed eyes he dared

to dream a moment in full abandonment, and when he looked again the

river seemed steely and chill, the green fields grey and lightless.

Then his loyal heart seemed to cry out on his weaker self for its

treachery.

“Why do you ever come back, then, at all?” he demanded of the swallows

jealously. “What do you find to attract you in this poor drab little

country?”

“And do you think,” said the first swallow, “that the other call is not

for us too, in its due season? The call of lush meadow-grass, wet

orchards, warm, insect-haunted ponds, of browsing cattle, of haymaking,

and all the farm-buildings clustering round the House of the perfect

Eaves?”

“Do you suppose,” asked the second one, that you are the only living

thing that craves with a hungry longing to hear the cuckoo’s note

again?”

“In due time,” said the third, “we shall be home-sick once more for

quiet water-lilies swaying on the surface of an English stream. But

to-day all that seems pale and thin and very far away. Just now our

blood dances to other music.”

They fell a-twittering among themselves once more, and this time their

intoxicating babble was of violet seas, tawny sands, and lizard-haunted

walls.

Restlessly the Rat wandered off once more, climbed the slope that rose

gently from the north bank of the river, and lay looking out towards

the great ring of Downs that barred his vision further southwards—his

simple horizon hitherto, his Mountains of the Moon, his limit behind

which lay nothing he had cared to see or to know. To-day, to him gazing

South with a new-born need stirring in his heart, the clear sky over

their long low outline seemed to pulsate with promise; to-day, the

unseen was everything, the unknown the only real fact of life. On this

side of the hills was now the real blank, on the other lay the crowded

and coloured panorama that his inner eye was seeing so clearly. What

seas lay beyond, green, leaping, and crested! What sun-bathed coasts,

along which the white villas glittered against the olive woods! What

quiet harbours, thronged with gallant shipping bound for purple islands

of wine and spice, islands set low in languorous waters!

He rose and descended river-wards once more; then changed his mind and

sought the side of the dusty lane. There, lying half-buried in the

thick, cool under-hedge tangle that bordered it, he could muse on the

metalled road and all the wondrous world that it led to; on all the

wayfarers, too, that might have trodden it, and the fortunes and

adventures they had gone to seek or found unseeking—out there,

beyond—beyond!

Footsteps fell on his ear, and the figure of one that walked somewhat

wearily came into view; and he saw that it was a Rat, and a very dusty

one. The wayfarer, as he reached him, saluted with a gesture of

courtesy that had something foreign about it—hesitated a moment—then

with a pleasant smile turned from the track and sat down by his side in

the cool herbage. He seemed tired, and the Rat let him rest

unquestioned, understanding something of what was in his thoughts;

knowing, too, the value all animals attach at times to mere silent

companionship, when the weary muscles slacken and the mind marks time.

The wayfarer was lean and keen-featured, and somewhat bowed at the

shoulders; his paws were thin and long, his eyes much wrinkled at the

corners, and he wore small gold ear rings in his neatly-set well-shaped

ears. His knitted jersey was of a faded blue, his breeches, patched and

stained, were based on a blue foundation, and his small belongings that

he carried were tied up in a blue cotton handkerchief.

When he had rested awhile the stranger sighed, snuffed the air, and

looked about him.

“That was clover, that warm whiff on the breeze,” he remarked; “and

those are cows we hear cropping the grass behind us and blowing softly

between mouthfuls. There is a sound of distant reapers, and yonder

rises a blue line of cottage smoke against the woodland. The river runs

somewhere close by, for I hear the call of a moorhen, and I see by your

build that you’re a freshwater mariner. Everything seems asleep, and

yet going on all the time. It is a goodly life that you lead, friend;

no doubt the best in the world, if only you are strong enough to lead

it!”

“Yes, it’s _the_ life, the only life, to live,” responded the Water Rat

dreamily, and without his usual whole-hearted conviction.

“I did not say exactly that,” replied the stranger cautiously; “but no

doubt it’s the best. I’ve tried it, and I know. And because I’ve just

tried it—six months of it—and know it’s the best, here am I, footsore

and hungry, tramping away from it, tramping southward, following the

old call, back to the old life, _the_ life which is mine and which will

not let me go.”

“Is this, then, yet another of them?” mused the Rat. “And where have

you just come from?” he asked. He hardly dared to ask where he was

bound for; he seemed to know the answer only too well.

“Nice little farm,” replied the wayfarer, briefly. “Upalong in that

direction”—he nodded northwards. “Never mind about it. I had everything

I could want—everything I had any right to expect of life, and more;

and here I am! Glad to be here all the same, though, glad to be here!

So many miles further on the road, so many hours nearer to my heart’s

desire!”

His shining eyes held fast to the horizon, and he seemed to be

listening for some sound that was wanting from that inland acreage,

vocal as it was with the cheerful music of pasturage and farmyard.

“You are not one of _us_,” said the Water Rat, “nor yet a farmer; nor

even, I should judge, of this country.”

“Right,” replied the stranger. “I’m a seafaring rat, I am, and the port

I originally hail from is Constantinople, though I’m a sort of a

foreigner there too, in a manner of speaking. You will have heard of

Constantinople, friend? A fair city, and an ancient and glorious one.

And you may have heard, too, of Sigurd, King of Norway, and how he

sailed thither with sixty ships, and how he and his men rode up through

streets all canopied in their honour with purple and gold; and how the

Emperor and Empress came down and banqueted with him on board his ship.

When Sigurd returned home, many of his Northmen remained behind and

entered the Emperor’s body-guard, and my ancestor, a Norwegian born,

stayed behind too, with the ships that Sigurd gave the Emperor.

Seafarers we have ever been, and no wonder; as for me, the city of my

birth is no more my home than any pleasant port between there and the

London River. I know them all, and they know me. Set me down on any of

their quays or foreshores, and I am home again.”

“I suppose you go great voyages,” said the Water Rat with growing

interest. “Months and months out of sight of land, and provisions

running short, and allowanced as to water, and your mind communing with

the mighty ocean, and all that sort of thing?”

“By no means,” said the Sea Rat frankly. “Such a life as you describe

would not suit me at all. I’m in the coasting trade, and rarely out of

sight of land. It’s the jolly times on shore that appeal to me, as much

as any seafaring. O, those southern seaports! The smell of them, the

riding-lights at night, the glamour!”

“Well, perhaps you have chosen the better way,” said the Water Rat, but

rather doubtfully. “Tell me something of your coasting, then, if you

have a mind to, and what sort of harvest an animal of spirit might hope

to bring home from it to warm his latter days with gallant memories by

the fireside; for my life, I confess to you, feels to me to-day

somewhat narrow and circumscribed.”