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Title: The Wind in the Willows

Author: Kenneth Grahame

Illustrator: Paul Bransom

Release date: January 14, 2009 [eBook #27805]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/27805

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WIND IN
THE WILLOWS ***

Book Cover

Front Fly Leaf

THE WIND
IN THE

WILLOWS

The Piper at the Gates of Dawn

Copyright, 1908, 1913, by

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

Published October, 1913

CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE RIVER BANK 1
II. THE OPEN ROAD 27
III. THE WILD WOOD 53
IV. MR. BADGER 79
V. DULCE DOMUM 107
VI. MR. TOAD 139
VII. THE PIPER AT THE GATES OF DAWN 167
VIII. TOAD'S ADVENTURES 191
IX. WAYFARERS ALL 219
X. THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF TOAD 253
XI. "LIKE SUMMER TEMPESTS CAME HIS TEARS" 287
XII. THE RETURN OF ULYSSES 323

ILLUSTRATIONS
The Piper at the Gates of Dawn Frontispiece
Facing Page
It was the Water Rat 8
"Come on!" he said. "We shall just have to walk it" 50
In panic, he began to run 64
Through the Wild Wood and the snow 94
Toad was a helpless prisoner in the remotest dungeon 164
He lay prostrate in his misery on the floor 196
"It's a hard life, by all accounts," murmured the Rat 240
Dwelling chiefly on his own cleverness, and presence of
mind in emergencies 292
The Badger said, "Now then, follow me!" 326

I

THE RIVER
BANK

T
HE Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning
his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders
and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had
dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur,
and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the air above and
in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little
house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder,
then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said, "Bother!" and
"O blow!" and also "Hang spring-cleaning!" and bolted out of the house
without even waiting to put on his coat. Something up above was calling him
imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his
case to the gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are
nearer to the sun and air. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and
scrooged, and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and
scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, "Up we
go! Up we go!" till at last, pop! his snout came out into the sunlight and he
found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow.
"This is fine!" he said to himself. "This is better than whitewashing!" The
sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, and
after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long the carol of happy
birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a shout. Jumping off all his four
legs at once, in the joy of living and the delight of spring without its cleaning,
he pursued his way across the meadow till he reached the hedge on the
further side.

"Hold up!" said an elderly rabbit at the gap. "Sixpence for the privilege of
passing by the private road!" He was bowled over in an instant by the
impatient and contemptuous Mole, who trotted along the side of the hedge
chaffing the other rabbits as they peeped hurriedly from their holes to see
what the row was about. "Onion-sauce! Onion-sauce!" he remarked jeeringly,
and was gone before they could think of a thoroughly satisfactory reply. Then
they all started grumbling at each other. "How stupid you are! Why didn't you
tell him—" "Well, why didn't you say—" "You might have reminded him—"
and so on, in the usual way; but, of course, it was then much too late, as is
always the case.
It all seemed too good to be true. Hither and thither through the meadows he
rambled busily, along the hedgerows, across the copses, finding everywhere
birds building, flowers budding, leaves thrusting—everything happy, and
progressive, and occupied. And instead of having an uneasy conscience
pricking him and whispering "whitewash!" he somehow could only feel how
jolly it was to be the only idle dog among all these busy citizens. After all, the
best part of a holiday is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see
all the other fellows busy working.
He thought his happiness was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly
along, suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed river. Never in his life had
he seen a river before—this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and
chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and leaving them with a laugh, to
fling itself on fresh playmates that shook themselves free, and were caught
and held again. All was a-shake and a-shiver—glints and gleams and
sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter and bubble. The Mole was bewitched,
entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when
very small, by the side of a man who holds one spellbound by exciting
stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still
chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world,
sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.
As he sat on the grass and looked across the river, a dark hole in the bank
opposite, just above the water's edge, caught his eye, and dreamily he fell to
considering what a nice, snug dwelling-place it would make for an animal
with few wants and fond of a bijou riverside residence, above flood level and
remote from noise and dust. As he gazed, something bright and small seemed
to twinkle down in the heart of it, vanished, then twinkled once more like a

tiny star. But it could hardly be a star in such an unlikely situation; and it was
too glittering and small for a glow-worm. Then, as he looked, it winked at
him, and so declared itself to be an eye; and a small face began gradually to
grow up round it, like a frame round a picture.
A brown little face, with whiskers.
A grave round face, with the same twinkle in its eye that had first attracted
his notice.
Small neat ears and thick silky hair.
It was the Water Rat!
Then the two animals stood and regarded each other cautiously.
"Hullo, Mole!" said the Water Rat.
"Hullo, Rat!" said the Mole.
"Would you like to come over?" enquired the Rat presently.
"Oh, it's all very well to talk," said the Mole rather pettishly, he being new to
a river and riverside life and its ways.
The Rat said nothing, but stooped and unfastened a rope and hauled on it;
then lightly stepped into a little boat which the Mole had not observed. It was
painted blue outside and white within, and was just the size for two animals;
and the Mole's whole heart went out to it at once, even though he did not yet
fully understand its uses.
The Rat sculled smartly across and made fast. Then he held up his fore-paw
as the Mole stepped gingerly down. "Lean on that!" he said. "Now then, step
lively!" and the Mole to his surprise and rapture found himself actually seated
in the stern of a real boat.
"This has been a wonderful day!" said he, as the Rat shoved off and took to
the sculls again. "Do you know, I've never been in a boat before in all my
life."

It was the Water Rat
"What?" cried the Rat, open-mouthed: "Never been in a—you never—well I
—what have you been doing, then?"
"Is it so nice as all that?" asked the Mole shyly, though he was quite prepared
to believe it as he leant back in his seat and surveyed the cushions, the oars,
the rowlocks, and all the fascinating fittings, and felt the boat sway lightly
under him.
"Nice? It's the only thing," said the Water Rat solemnly as he leant forward
for his stroke. "Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing—absolute
nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. Simply
messing," he went on dreamily: "messing—about—in—boats; messing—"

"Look ahead, Rat!" cried the Mole suddenly.
It was too late. The boat struck the bank full tilt. The dreamer, the joyous
oarsman, lay on his back at the bottom of the boat, his heels in the air.
"—about in boats—or with boats," the Rat went on composedly, picking
himself up with a pleasant laugh. "In or out of 'em, it doesn't matter. Nothing
seems really to matter, that's the charm of it. Whether you get away, or
whether you don't; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you
reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you're
always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and when you've done
it there's always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you'd
much better not. Look here! If you've really nothing else on hand this
morning, supposing we drop down the river together, and have a long day of
it?"
The Mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness, spread his chest with a sigh
of full contentment, and leant back blissfully into the soft cushions. "What a
day I'm having!" he said. "Let us start at once!"
"Hold hard a minute, then!" said the Rat. He looped the painter through a ring
in his landing-stage, climbed up into his hole above, and after a short interval
reappeared staggering under a fat wicker luncheon-basket.
"Shove that under your feet," he observed to the Mole, as he passed it down
into the boat. Then he untied the painter and took the sculls again.
"What's inside it?" asked the Mole, wriggling with curiosity.
"There's cold chicken inside it," replied the Rat briefly:
"coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrolls–
cresssandwichespottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater—"
"O stop, stop!" cried the Mole in ecstasies. "This is too much!"
"Do you really think so?" enquired the Rat seriously. "It's only what I always
take on these little excursions; and the other animals are always telling me
that I'm a mean beast and cut it very fine!"
The Mole never heard a word he was saying. Absorbed in the new life he was
entering upon, intoxicated with the sparkle, the ripple, the scents and the

sounds and the sunlight, he trailed a paw in the water and dreamed long
waking dreams. The Water Rat, like the good little fellow he was, sculled
steadily on and forbore to disturb him.
"I like your clothes awfully, old chap," he remarked after some half an hour
or so had passed. "I'm going to get a black velvet smoking-suit myself some
day, as soon as I can afford it."
"I beg your pardon," said the Mole, pulling himself together with an effort.
"You must think me very rude; but all this is so new to me. So—this—is—a
—River!"
"The River," corrected the Rat.
"And you really live by the river? What a jolly life!"
"By it and with it and on it and in it," said the Rat. "It's brother and sister to
me, and aunts, and company, and food and drink, and (naturally) washing. It's
my world, and I don't want any other. What it hasn't got is not worth having,
and what it doesn't know is not worth knowing. Lord! the times we've had
together! Whether in winter or summer, spring or autumn, it's always got its
fun and its excitements. When the floods are on in February, and my cellars
and basement are brimming with drink that's no good to me, and the brown
water runs by my best bedroom window; or again when it all drops away and
shows patches of mud that smells like plum-cake, and the rushes and weed
clog the channels, and I can potter about dry shod over most of the bed of it
and find fresh food to eat, and things careless people have dropped out of
boats!"
"But isn't it a bit dull at times?" the Mole ventured to ask. "Just you and the
river, and no one else to pass a word with?"
"No one else to—well, I mustn't be hard on you," said the Rat with
forbearance. "You're new to it, and of course you don't know. The bank is so
crowded nowadays that many people are moving away altogether. O no, it
isn't what it used to be, at all. Otters, king-fishers, dabchicks, moorhens, all of
them about all day long and always wanting you to do something—as if a
fellow had no business of his own to attend to!"
"What lies over there?" asked the Mole, waving a paw towards a background
of woodland that darkly framed the water-meadows on one side of the river.

"That? O, that's just the Wild Wood," said the Rat shortly. "We don't go there
very much, we river-bankers."
"Aren't they—aren't they very nice people in there?" said the Mole a trifle
nervously.
"W-e-ll," replied the Rat, "let me see. The squirrels are all right. And the
rabbits—some of 'em, but rabbits are a mixed lot. And then there's Badger, of
course. He lives right in the heart of it; wouldn't live anywhere else, either, if
you paid him to do it. Dear old Badger! Nobody interferes with him. They'd
better not," he added significantly.
"Why, who should interfere with him?" asked the Mole.
"Well, of course—there—are others," explained the Rat in a hesitating sort of
way. "Weasels—and stoats—and foxes—and so on. They're all right in a way
—I'm very good friends with them—pass the time of day when we meet, and
all that—but they break out sometimes, there's no denying it, and then—well,
you can't really trust them, and that's the fact."
The Mole knew well that it is quite against animal-etiquette to dwell on
possible trouble ahead, or even to allude to it; so he dropped the subject.
"And beyond the Wild Wood again?" he asked; "where it's all blue and dim,
and one sees what may be hills or perhaps they mayn't, and something like
the smoke of towns, or is it only cloud-drift?"
"Beyond the Wild Wood comes the Wide World," said the Rat. "And that's
something that doesn't matter, either to you or me. I've never been there, and
I'm never going, nor you either, if you've got any sense at all. Don't ever refer
to it again, please. Now then! Here's our backwater at last, where we're going
to lunch."
Leaving the main stream, they now passed into what seemed at first sight like
a little landlocked lake. Green turf sloped down to either edge, brown snaky
tree-roots gleamed below the surface of the quiet water, while ahead of them
the silvery shoulder and foamy tumble of a weir, arm-in-arm with a restless
dripping mill-wheel, that held up in its turn a grey-gabled mill-house, filled
the air with a soothing murmur of sound, dull and smothery, yet with little
clear voices speaking up cheerfully out of it at intervals. It was so very

beautiful that the Mole could only hold up both fore-paws and gasp: "O my!
O my! O my!"
The Rat brought the boat alongside the bank, made her fast, helped the still
awkward Mole safely ashore, and swung out the luncheon-basket. The Mole
begged as a favour to be allowed to unpack it all by himself; and the Rat was
very pleased to indulge him, and to sprawl at full length on the grass and rest,
while his excited friend shook out the table-cloth and spread it, took out all
the mysterious packets one by one and arranged their contents in due order,
still gasping: "O my! O my!" at each fresh revelation. When all was ready,
the Rat said, "Now, pitch in, old fellow!" and the Mole was indeed very glad
to obey, for he had started his spring-cleaning at a very early hour that
morning, as people will do, and had not paused for bite or sup; and he had
been through a very great deal since that distant time which now seemed so
many days ago.
"What are you looking at?" said the Rat presently, when the edge of their
hunger was somewhat dulled, and the Mole's eyes were able to wander off
the table-cloth a little.
"I am looking," said the Mole, "at a streak of bubbles that I see travelling
along the surface of the water. That is a thing that strikes me as funny."
"Bubbles? Oho!" said the Rat, and chirruped cheerily in an inviting sort of
way.
A broad glistening muzzle showed itself above the edge of the bank, and the
Otter hauled himself out and shook the water from his coat.
"Greedy beggars!" he observed, making for the provender. "Why didn't you
invite me, Ratty?"
"This was an impromptu affair," explained the Rat. "By the way—my friend
Mr. Mole."
"Proud, I'm sure," said the Otter, and the two animals were friends forthwith.
"Such a rumpus everywhere!" continued the Otter. "All the world seems out
on the river to-day. I came up this backwater to try and get a moment's peace,
and then stumble upon you fellows!—At least—I beg pardon—I don't exactly
mean that, you know."

There was a rustle behind them, proceeding from a hedge wherein last year's
leaves still clung thick, and a stripy head, with high shoulders behind it,
peered forth on them.
"Come on, old Badger!" shouted the Rat.
The Badger trotted forward a pace or two, then grunted, "H'm! Company,"
and turned his back and disappeared from view.
"That's just the sort of fellow he is!" observed the disappointed Rat. "Simply
hates Society! Now we shan't see any more of him to-day. Well, tell us, who's
out on the river?"
"Toad's out, for one," replied the Otter. "In his brand-new wager-boat; new
togs, new everything!"
The two animals looked at each other and laughed.
"Once, it was nothing but sailing," said the Rat. "Then he tired of that and
took to punting. Nothing would please him but to punt all day and every day,
and a nice mess he made of it. Last year it was house-boating, and we all had
to go and stay with him in his house-boat, and pretend we liked it. He was
going to spend the rest of his life in a house-boat. It's all the same, whatever
he takes up; he gets tired of it, and starts on something fresh."
"Such a good fellow, too," remarked the Otter reflectively; "but no stability—
especially in a boat!"
From where they sat they could get a glimpse of the main stream across the
island that separated them; and just then a wager-boat flashed into view, the
rower—a short, stout figure—splashing badly and rolling a good deal, but
working his hardest. The Rat stood up and hailed him, but Toad—for it was
he—shook his head and settled sternly to his work.
"He'll be out of the boat in a minute if he rolls like that," said the Rat, sitting
down again.
"Of course he will," chuckled the Otter. "Did I ever tell you that good story
about Toad and the lock-keeper? It happened this way. Toad...."
An errant May-fly swerved unsteadily athwart the current in the intoxicated
fashion affected by young bloods of May-flies seeing life. A swirl of water

and a "cloop!" and the May-fly was visible no more.
Neither was the Otter.
The Mole looked down. The voice was still in his ears, but the turf whereon
he had sprawled was clearly vacant. Not an Otter to be seen, as far as the
distant horizon.
But again there was a streak of bubbles on the surface of the river.
The Rat hummed a tune, and the Mole recollected that animal-etiquette
forbade any sort of comment on the sudden disappearance of one's friends at
any moment, for any reason or no reason whatever.
"Well, well," said the Rat, "I suppose we ought to be moving. I wonder which
of us had better pack the luncheon-basket?" He did not speak as if he was
frightfully eager for the treat.
"O, please let me," said the Mole. So, of course, the Rat let him.
Packing the basket was not quite such pleasant work as unpacking the basket.
It never is. But the Mole was bent on enjoying everything, and although just
when he had got the basket packed and strapped up tightly he saw a plate
staring up at him from the grass, and when the job had been done again the
Rat pointed out a fork which anybody ought to have seen, and last of all,
behold! the mustard pot, which he had been sitting on without knowing it—
still, somehow, the thing got finished at last, without much loss of temper.
The afternoon sun was getting low as the Rat sculled gently homewards in a
dreamy mood, murmuring poetry-things over to himself, and not paying
much attention to Mole. But the Mole was very full of lunch, and self-
satisfaction, and pride, and already quite at home in a boat (so he thought),
and was getting a bit restless besides: and presently he said, "Ratty! Please, I
want to row, now!"
The Rat shook his head with a smile. "Not yet, my young friend," he said;
"wait till you've had a few lessons. It's not so easy as it looks."
The Mole was quiet for a minute or two. But he began to feel more and more
jealous of Rat, sculling so strongly and so easily along, and his pride began to
whisper that he could do it every bit as well. He jumped up and seized the

sculls so suddenly that the Rat, who was gazing out over the water and saying
more poetry-things to himself, was taken by surprise and fell backwards off
his seat with his legs in the air for the second time, while the triumphant
Mole took his place and grabbed the sculls with entire confidence.
"Stop it, you silly ass!" cried the Rat, from the bottom of the boat. "You can't
do it! You'll have us over!"
The Mole flung his sculls back with a flourish, and made a great dig at the
water. He missed the surface altogether, his legs flew up above his head, and
he found himself lying on the top of the prostrate Rat. Greatly alarmed, he
made a grab at the side of the boat, and the next moment—Sploosh!
Over went the boat, and he found himself struggling in the river.
O my, how cold the water was, and O, how very wet it felt! How it sang in his
ears as he went down, down, down! How bright and welcome the sun looked
as he rose to the surface coughing and spluttering! How black was his despair
when he felt himself sinking again! Then a firm paw gripped him by the back
of his neck. It was the Rat, and he was evidently laughing—the Mole could
feel him laughing, right down his arm and through his paw, and so into his—
the Mole's—neck.
The Rat got hold of a scull and shoved it under the Mole's arm; then he did
the same by the other side of him and, swimming behind, propelled the
helpless animal to shore, hauled him out, and set him down on the bank, a
squashy, pulpy lump of misery.
When the Rat had rubbed him down a bit, and wrung some of the wet out of
him, he said, "Now then, old fellow! Trot up and down the towing-path as
hard as you can, till you're warm and dry again, while I dive for the
luncheon-basket."
So the dismal Mole, wet without and ashamed within, trotted about till he
was fairly dry, while the Rat plunged into the water again, recovered the boat,
righted her and made her fast, fetched his floating property to shore by
degrees, and finally dived successfully for the luncheon-basket and struggled
to land with it.
When all was ready for a start once more, the Mole, limp and dejected, took
his seat in the stern of the boat; and as they set off, he said in a low voice,

broken with emotion, "Ratty, my generous friend! I am very sorry indeed for
my foolish and ungrateful conduct. My heart quite fails me when I think how
I might have lost that beautiful luncheon-basket. Indeed, I have been a
complete ass, and I know it. Will you overlook it this once and forgive me,
and let things go on as before?"
"That's all right, bless you!" responded the Rat cheerily. "What's a little wet
to a Water Rat? I'm more in the water than out of it most days. Don't you
think any more about it; and look here! I really think you had better come and
stop with me for a little time. It's very plain and rough, you know—not like
Toad's house at all—but you haven't seen that yet; still, I can make you
comfortable. And I'll teach you to row and to swim, and you'll soon be as
handy on the water as any of us."
The Mole was so touched by his kind manner of speaking that he could find
no voice to answer him; and he had to brush away a tear or two with the back
of his paw. But the Rat kindly looked in another direction, and presently the
Mole's spirits revived again, and he was even able to give some straight back-
talk to a couple of moorhens who were sniggering to each other about his
bedraggled appearance.
When they got home, the Rat made a bright fire in the parlour, and planted
the Mole in an arm-chair in front of it, having fetched down a dressing-gown
and slippers for him, and told him river stories till supper-time. Very thrilling
stories they were, too, to an earth-dwelling animal like Mole. Stories about
weirs, and sudden floods, and leaping pike, and steamers that flung hard
bottles—at least bottles were certainly flung, and from steamers, so
presumably by them; and about herons, and how particular they were whom
they spoke to; and about adventures down drains, and night-fishings with
Otter, or excursions far a-field with Badger. Supper was a most cheerful
meal; but very shortly afterwards a terribly sleepy Mole had to be escorted
upstairs by his considerate host, to the best bedroom, where he soon laid his
head on his pillow in great peace and contentment, knowing that his new-
found friend, the River, was lapping the sill of his window.
This day was only the first of many similar ones for the emancipated Mole,
each of them longer and full of interest as the ripening summer moved
onward. He learnt to swim and to row, and entered into the joy of running

water; and with his ear to the reed-stems he caught, at intervals, something of
what the wind went whispering so constantly among them.

II

THE OPEN
ROAD

"R
ATTY," said the Mole suddenly, one bright summer morning, "if
you please, I want to ask you a favour."
The Rat was sitting on the river bank, singing a little song. He had
just composed it himself, so he was very taken up with it, and would not pay
proper attention to Mole or anything else. Since early morning he had been
swimming in the river, in company with his friends, the ducks. And when the
ducks stood on their heads suddenly, as ducks will, he would dive down and
tickle their necks, just under where their chins would be if ducks had chins,
till they were forced to come to the surface again in a hurry, spluttering and
angry and shaking their feathers at him, for it is impossible to say quite all
you feel when your head is under water. At last they implored him to go away
and attend to his own affairs and leave them to mind theirs. So the Rat went
away, and sat on the river bank in the sun, and made up a song about them,
which he called:

"DUCKS' DITTY."

All along the backwater,
Through the rushes tall,
Ducks are a-dabbling,
Up tails all!

Ducks' tails, drakes' tails,
Yellow feet a-quiver,
Yellow bills all out of sight

Busy in the river!

Slushy green undergrowth
Where the roach swim—
Here we keep our larder,
Cool and full and dim.

Everyone for what he likes!
We like to be
Heads down, tails up,
Dabbling free!

High in the blue above
Swifts whirl and call—
We are down a-dabbling
Up tails all!
"I don't know that I think so very much of that little song, Rat," observed the
Mole cautiously. He was no poet himself and didn't care who knew it; and he
had a candid nature.
"Nor don't the ducks neither," replied the Rat cheerfully. "They say, 'Why
can't fellows be allowed to do what they like when they like and as they like,
instead of other fellows sitting on banks and watching them all the time and
making remarks and poetry and things about them? What nonsense it all is!'
That's what the ducks say."
"So it is, so it is," said the Mole, with great heartiness.
"No, it isn't!" cried the Rat indignantly.
"Well then, it isn't, it isn't," replied the Mole soothingly. "But what I wanted
to ask you was, won't you take me to call on Mr. Toad? I've heard so much
about him, and I do so want to make his acquaintance."
"Why, certainly," said the good-natured Rat, jumping to his feet and
dismissing poetry from his mind for the day. "Get the boat out, and we'll
paddle up there at once. It's never the wrong time to call on Toad. Early or
late, he's always the same fellow. Always good-tempered, always glad to see
you, always sorry when you go!"

"He must be a very nice animal," observed the Mole, as he got into the boat
and took the sculls, while the Rat settled himself comfortably in the stern.
"He is indeed the best of animals," replied Rat. "So simple, so good-natured,
and so affectionate. Perhaps he's not very clever—we can't all be geniuses;
and it may be that he is both boastful and conceited. But he has got some
great qualities, has Toady."
Rounding a bend in the river, they came in sight of a handsome, dignified old
house of mellowed red brick, with well-kept lawns reaching down to the
water's edge.
"There's Toad Hall," said the Rat; "and that creek on the left, where the
notice-board says, 'Private. No landing allowed,' leads to his boat-house,
where we'll leave the boat. The stables are over there to the right. That's the
banqueting-hall you're looking at now—very old, that is. Toad is rather rich,
you know, and this is really one of the nicest houses in these parts, though we
never admit as much to Toad."
They glided up the creek, and the Mole shipped his sculls as they passed into
the shadow of a large boat-house. Here they saw many handsome boats,
slung from the cross-beams or hauled up on a slip, but none in the water; and
the place had an unused and a deserted air.
The Rat looked around him. "I understand," said he. "Boating is played out.
He's tired of it, and done with it. I wonder what new fad he has taken up
now? Come along and let's look him up. We shall hear all about it quite soon
enough."
They disembarked, and strolled across the gay flower-decked lawns in search
of Toad, whom they presently happened upon resting in a wicker garden-
chair, with a pre-occupied expression of face, and a large map spread out on
his knees.
"Hooray!" he cried, jumping up on seeing them, "this is splendid!" He shook
the paws of both of them warmly, never waiting for an introduction to the
Mole. "How kind of you!" he went on, dancing round them. "I was just going
to send a boat down the river for you, Ratty, with strict orders that you were
to be fetched up here at once, whatever you were doing. I want you badly—

both of you. Now what will you take? Come inside and have something! You
don't know how lucky it is, your turning up just now!"
"Let's sit quiet a bit, Toady!" said the Rat, throwing himself into an easy
chair, while the Mole took another by the side of him and made some civil
remark about Toad's "delightful residence."
"Finest house on the whole river," cried Toad boisterously. "Or anywhere
else, for that matter," he could not help adding.
Here the Rat nudged the Mole. Unfortunately the Toad saw him do it, and
turned very red. There was a moment's painful silence. Then Toad burst out
laughing. "All right, Ratty," he said. "It's only my way, you know. And it's not
such a very bad house, is it? You know, you rather like it yourself. Now, look
here. Let's be sensible. You are the very animals I wanted. You've got to help
me. It's most important!"
"It's about your rowing, I suppose," said the Rat, with an innocent air. "You're
getting on fairly well, though you splash a good bit still. With a great deal of
patience and any quantity of coaching, you may—"
"O, pooh! boating!" interrupted the Toad, in great disgust. "Silly boyish
amusement. I've given that up long ago. Sheer waste of time, that's what it is.
It makes me downright sorry to see you fellows, who ought to know better,
spending all your energies in that aimless manner. No, I've discovered the
real thing, the only genuine occupation for a lifetime. I propose to devote the
remainder of mine to it, and can only regret the wasted years that lie behind
me, squandered in trivialities. Come with me, dear Ratty, and your amiable
friend also, if he will be so very good, just as far as the stable-yard, and you
shall see what you shall see!"
He led the way to the stable-yard accordingly, the Rat following with a most
mistrustful expression; and there, drawn out of the coach-house into the open,
they saw a gipsy caravan, shining with newness, painted a canary-yellow
picked out with green, and red wheels.
"There you are!" cried the Toad, straddling and expanding himself. "There's
real life for you, embodied in that little cart. The open road, the dusty
highway, the heath, the common, the hedgerows, the rolling downs! Camps,
villages, towns, cities! Here to-day, up and off to somewhere else to-morrow!

Travel, change, interest, excitement! The whole world before you, and a
horizon that's always changing! And mind! this is the very finest cart of its
sort that was ever built, without any exception. Come inside and look at the
arrangements. Planned 'em all myself, I did!"
The Mole was tremendously interested and excited, and followed him eagerly
up the steps and into the interior of the caravan. The Rat only snorted and
thrust his hands deep into his pockets, remaining where he was.
It was indeed very compact and comfortable. Little sleeping bunks—a little
table that folded up against the wall—a cooking-stove, lockers, book-shelves,
a bird-cage with a bird in it; and pots, pans, jugs, and kettles of every size and
variety.
"All complete!" said the Toad triumphantly, pulling open a locker. "You see
—biscuits, potted lobster, sardines—everything you can possibly want. Soda-
water here—baccy there—letter-paper, bacon, jam, cards, and dominoes—
you'll find," he continued, as they descended the steps again, "you'll find that
nothing whatever has been forgotten, when we make our start this afternoon."
"I beg your pardon," said the Rat slowly, as he chewed a straw, "but did I
overhear you say something about 'we,' and 'start,' and 'this afternoon'?"
"Now, you dear good old Ratty," said Toad imploringly, "don't begin talking
in that stiff and sniffy sort of way, because you know you've got to come. I
can't possibly manage without you, so please consider it settled, and don't
argue—it's the one thing I can't stand. You surely don't mean to stick to your
dull fusty old river all your life, and just live in a hole in a bank, and boat? I
want to show you the world! I'm going to make an animal of you, my boy!"
"I don't care," said the Rat doggedly. "I'm not coming, and that's flat. And I
am going to stick to my old river, and live in a hole, and boat, as I've always
done. And what's more, Mole's going to stick to me and do as I do, aren't you,
Mole?"
"Of course I am," said the Mole, loyally. "I'll always stick to you, Rat, and
what you say is to be—has got to be. All the same, it sounds as if it might
have been—well, rather fun, you know!" he added wistfully. Poor Mole! The
Life Adventurous was so new a thing to him, and so thrilling; and this fresh

aspect of it was so tempting; and he had fallen in love at first sight with the
canary-coloured cart and all its little fitments.
The Rat saw what was passing in his mind, and wavered. He hated
disappointing people, and he was fond of the Mole, and would do almost
anything to oblige him. Toad was watching both of them closely.
"Come along in, and have some lunch," he said, diplomatically, "and we'll
talk it over. We needn't decide anything in a hurry. Of course, I don't really
care. I only want to give pleasure to you fellows. 'Live for others!' That's my
motto in life."
During luncheon—which was excellent, of course, as everything at Toad Hall
always was—the Toad simply let himself go. Disregarding the Rat, he
proceeded to play upon the inexperienced Mole as on a harp. Naturally a
voluble animal, and always mastered by his imagination, he painted the
prospects of the trip and the joys of the open life and the roadside in such
glowing colours that the Mole could hardly sit in his chair for excitement.
Somehow, it soon seemed taken for granted by all three of them that the trip
was a settled thing; and the Rat, though still unconvinced in his mind,
allowed his good-nature to over-ride his personal objections. He could not
bear to disappoint his two friends, who were already deep in schemes and
anticipations, planning out each day's separate occupation for several weeks
ahead.
When they were quite ready, the now triumphant Toad led his companions to
the paddock and set them to capture the old grey horse, who, without having
been consulted, and to his own extreme annoyance, had been told off by Toad
for the dustiest job in this dusty expedition. He frankly preferred the paddock,
and took a deal of catching. Meantime Toad packed the lockers still tighter
with necessaries, and hung nose-bags, nets of onions, bundles of hay, and
baskets from the bottom of the cart. At last the horse was caught and
harnessed, and they set off, all talking at once, each animal either trudging by
the side of the cart or sitting on the shaft, as the humour took him. It was a
golden afternoon. The smell of the dust they kicked up was rich and
satisfying; out of thick orchards on either side the road, birds called and
whistled to them cheerily; good-natured wayfarers, passing them, gave them
"Good day," or stopped to say nice things about their beautiful cart; and

rabbits, sitting at their front doors in the hedgerows, held up their fore-paws,
and said, "O my! O my! O my!"
Late in the evening, tired and happy and miles from home, they drew up on a
remote common far from habitations, turned the horse loose to graze, and ate
their simple supper sitting on the grass by the side of the cart. Toad talked big
about all he was going to do in the days to come, while stars grew fuller and
larger all around them, and a yellow moon, appearing suddenly and silently
from nowhere in particular, came to keep them company and listen to their
talk. At last they turned in to their little bunks in the cart; and Toad, kicking
out his legs, sleepily said, "Well, good night, you fellows! This is the real life
for a gentleman! Talk about your old river!"
"I don't talk about my river," replied the patient Rat. "You know I don't, Toad.
But I think about it," he added pathetically, in a lower tone: "I think about it
—all the time!"
The Mole reached out from under his blanket, felt for the Rat's paw in the
darkness, and gave it a squeeze. "I'll do whatever you like, Ratty," he
whispered. "Shall we run away to-morrow morning, quite early—very early
—and go back to our dear old hole on the river?"
"No, no, we'll see it out," whispered back the Rat. "Thanks awfully, but I
ought to stick by Toad till this trip is ended. It wouldn't be safe for him to be
left to himself. It won't take very long. His fads never do. Good night!"
The end was indeed nearer than even the Rat suspected.
After so much open air and excitement the Toad slept very soundly, and no
amount of shaking could rouse him out of bed next morning. So the Mole and
Rat turned to, quietly and manfully, and while the Rat saw to the horse, and
lit a fire, and cleaned last night's cups and platters, and got things ready for
breakfast, the Mole trudged off to the nearest village, a long way off, for milk
and eggs and various necessaries the Toad had, of course, forgotten to
provide. The hard work had all been done, and the two animals were resting,
thoroughly exhausted, by the time Toad appeared on the scene, fresh and gay,
remarking what a pleasant, easy life it was they were all leading now, after
the cares and worries and fatigues of housekeeping at home.

They had a pleasant ramble that day over grassy downs and along narrow by-
lanes, and camped, as before, on a common, only this time the two guests
took care that Toad should do his fair share of work. In consequence, when
the time came for starting next morning, Toad was by no means so rapturous
about the simplicity of the primitive life, and indeed attempted to resume his
place in his bunk, whence he was hauled by force. Their way lay, as before,
across country by narrow lanes, and it was not till the afternoon that they
came out on the high-road, their first high-road; and there disaster, fleet and
unforeseen, sprang out on them—disaster momentous indeed to their
expedition, but simply overwhelming in its effect on the after career of Toad.
They were strolling along the high-road easily, the Mole by the horse's head,
talking to him, since the horse had complained that he was being frightfully
left out of it, and nobody considered him in the least; the Toad and the Water
Rat walking behind the cart talking together—at least Toad was talking, and
Rat was saying at intervals, "Yes, precisely; and what did you say to him?"—
and thinking all the time of something very different, when far behind them
they heard a faint warning hum, like the drone of a distant bee. Glancing
back, they saw a small cloud of dust, with a dark centre of energy, advancing
on them at incredible speed, while from out the dust a faint "Poop-poop!"
wailed like an uneasy animal in pain. Hardly regarding it, they turned to
resume their conversation, when in an instant (as it seemed) the peaceful
scene was changed, and with a blast of wind and a whirl of sound that made
them jump for the nearest ditch. It was on them! The "Poop-poop" rang with
a brazen shout in their ears, they had a moment's glimpse of an interior of
glittering plate-glass and rich morocco, and the magnificent motor-car,
immense, breath-snatching, passionate, with its pilot tense and hugging his
wheel, possessed all earth and air for the fraction of a second, flung an
enveloping cloud of dust that blinded and enwrapped them utterly, and then
dwindled to a speck in the far distance, changed back into a droning bee once
more.
The old grey horse, dreaming, as he plodded along, of his quiet paddock, in a
new raw situation such as this, simply abandoned himself to his natural
emotions. Rearing, plunging, backing steadily, in spite of all the Mole's
efforts at his head, and all the Mole's lively language directed at his better
feelings, he drove the cart backward towards the deep ditch at the side of the
road. It wavered an instant—then there was a heart-rending crash—and the

canary-coloured cart, their pride and their joy, lay on its side in the ditch, an
irredeemable wreck.
The Rat danced up and down in the road, simply transported with passion.
"You villains!" he shouted, shaking both fists. "You scoundrels, you
highwaymen, you—you—road-hogs!—I'll have the law of you! I'll report
you! I'll take you through all the Courts!" His home-sickness had quite
slipped away from him, and for the moment he was the skipper of the canary-
coloured vessel driven on a shoal by the reckless jockeying of rival mariners,
and he was trying to recollect all the fine and biting things he used to say to
masters of steam-launches when their wash, as they drove too near the bank,
used to flood his parlour-carpet at home.
Toad sat straight down in the middle of the dusty road, his legs stretched out
before him, and stared fixedly in the direction of the disappearing motor-car.
He breathed short, his face wore a placid, satisfied expression, and at
intervals he faintly murmured "Poop-poop!"
The Mole was busy trying to quiet the horse, which he succeeded in doing
after a time. Then he went to look at the cart, on its side in the ditch. It was
indeed a sorry sight. Panels and windows smashed, axles hopelessly bent, one
wheel off, sardine-tins scattered over the wide world, and the bird in the bird-
cage sobbing pitifully and calling to be let out.
The Rat came to help him, but their united efforts were not sufficient to right
the cart. "Hi! Toad!" they cried. "Come and bear a hand, can't you!"
The Toad never answered a word, or budged from his seat in the road; so they
went to see what was the matter with him. They found him in a sort of a
trance, a happy smile on his face, his eyes still fixed on the dusty wake of
their destroyer. At intervals he was still heard to murmur "Poop-poop!"
The Rat shook him by the shoulder. "Are you coming to help us, Toad?" he
demanded sternly.
"Glorious, stirring sight!" murmured Toad, never offering to move. "The
poetry of motion! The real way to travel! The only way to travel! Here to-day
—in next week to-morrow! Villages skipped, towns and cities jumped—
always somebody else's horizon! O bliss! O poop-poop! O my! O my!"
"O stop being an ass, Toad!" cried the Mole despairingly.

"And to think I never knew!" went on the Toad in a dreamy monotone. "All
those wasted years that lie behind me, I never knew, never even dreamt! But
now—but now that I know, now that I fully realise! O what a flowery track
lies spread before me, henceforth! What dust-clouds shall spring up behind
me as I speed on my reckless way! What carts I shall fling carelessly into the
ditch in the wake of my magnificent onset! Horrid little carts—common carts
—canary-coloured carts!"
"What are we to do with him?" asked the Mole of the Water Rat.
"Nothing at all," replied the Rat firmly. "Because there is really nothing to be
done. You see, I know him from of old. He is now possessed. He has got a
new craze, and it always takes him that way, in its first stage. He'll continue
like that for days now, like an animal walking in a happy dream, quite useless
for all practical purposes. Never mind him. Let's go and see what there is to
be done about the cart."
A careful inspection showed them that, even if they succeeded in righting it
by themselves, the cart would travel no longer. The axles were in a hopeless
state, and the missing wheel was shattered into pieces.
The Rat knotted the horse's reins over his back and took him by the head,
carrying the bird-cage and its hysterical occupant in the other hand. "Come
on!" he said grimly to the Mole. "It's five or six miles to the nearest town, and
we shall just have to walk it. The sooner we make a start the better."
"But what about Toad?" asked the Mole anxiously, as they set off together.
"We can't leave him here, sitting in the middle of the road by himself, in the
distracted state he's in! It's not safe. Supposing another Thing were to come
along?"
"O, bother Toad," said the Rat savagely; "I've done with him."
They had not proceeded very far on their way, however, when there was a
pattering of feet behind them, and Toad caught them up and thrust a paw
inside the elbow of each of them; still breathing short and staring into
vacancy.
"Now, look here, Toad!" said the Rat sharply: "as soon as we get to the town,
you'll have to go straight to the police-station and see if they know anything
about that motor-car and who it belongs to, and lodge a complaint against it.

And then you'll have to go to a blacksmith's or a wheelwright's and arrange
for the cart to be fetched and mended and put to rights. It'll take time, but it's
not quite a hopeless smash. Meanwhile, the Mole and I will go to an inn and
find comfortable rooms where we can stay till the cart's ready, and till your
nerves have recovered their shock."
"Police-station! Complaint!" murmured Toad dreamily. "Me complain of that
beautiful, that heavenly vision that has been vouchsafed me! Mend the cart!
I've done with carts for ever. I never want to see the cart, or to hear of it,
again. O Ratty! You can't think how obliged I am to you for consenting to
come on this trip! I wouldn't have gone without you, and then I might never
have seen that—that swan, that sunbeam, that thunderbolt! I might never
have heard that entrancing sound, or smelt that bewitching smell! I owe it all
to you, my best of friends!"

"Come on!" he said. "We shall just have to
walk it"
The Rat turned from him in despair. "You see what it is?" he said to the Mole,
addressing him across Toad's head: "He's quite hopeless. I give it up—when
we get to the town we'll go to the railway station, and with luck we may pick
up a train there that'll get us back to river bank to-night. And if ever you catch
me going a-pleasuring with this provoking animal again!"—He snorted, and
during the rest of that weary trudge addressed his remarks exclusively to
Mole.
On reaching the town they went straight to the station and deposited Toad in
the second-class waiting-room, giving a porter twopence to keep a strict eye
on him. They then left the horse at an inn stable, and gave what directions

they could about the cart and its contents. Eventually, a slow train having
landed them at a station not very far from Toad Hall, they escorted the
spellbound, sleep-walking Toad to his door, put him inside it, and instructed
his housekeeper to feed him, undress him, and put him to bed. Then they got
out their boat from the boat-house, sculled down the river home, and at a very
late hour sat down to supper in their own cosy riverside parlour, to the Rat's
great joy and contentment.
The following evening the Mole, who had risen late and taken things very
easy all day, was sitting on the bank fishing, when the Rat, who had been
looking up his friends and gossiping, came strolling along to find him.
"Heard the news?" he said. "There's nothing else being talked about, all along
the river bank. Toad went up to Town by an early train this morning. And he
has ordered a large and very expensive motor-car."

III

THE WILD
WOOD

T
HE Mole had long wanted to make the acquaintance of the Badger. He
seemed, by all accounts, to be such an important personage and,
though rarely visible, to make his unseen influence felt by everybody
about the place. But whenever the Mole mentioned his wish to the Water Rat,
he always found himself put off. "It's all right," the Rat would say. "Badger'll
turn up some day or other—he's always turning up—and then I'll introduce
you. The best of fellows! But you must not only take him as you find him,
but when you find him."
"Couldn't you ask him here—dinner or something?" said the Mole.
"He wouldn't come," replied the Rat simply. "Badger hates Society, and
invitations, and dinner, and all that sort of thing."
"Well, then, supposing we go and call on him?" suggested the Mole.
"O, I'm sure he wouldn't like that at all," said the Rat, quite alarmed. "He's so
very shy, he'd be sure to be offended. I've never even ventured to call on him
at his own home myself, though I know him so well. Besides, we can't. It's
quite out of the question, because he lives in the very middle of the Wild
Wood."
"Well, supposing he does," said the Mole. "You told me the Wild Wood was
all right, you know."
"O, I know, I know, so it is," replied the Rat evasively. "But I think we won't
go there just now. Not just yet. It's a long way, and he wouldn't be at home at

this time of year anyhow, and he'll be coming along some day, if you'll wait
quietly."
The Mole had to be content with this. But the Badger never came along, and
every day brought its amusements, and it was not till summer was long over,
and cold and frost and miry ways kept them much indoors, and the swollen
river raced past outside their windows with a speed that mocked at boating of
any sort or kind, that he found his thoughts dwelling again with much
persistence on the solitary grey Badger, who lived his own life by himself, in
his hole in the middle of the Wild Wood.
In the winter time the Rat slept a great deal, retiring early and rising late.
During his short day he sometimes scribbled poetry or did other small
domestic jobs about the house; and, of course, there were always animals
dropping in for a chat, and consequently there was a good deal of story-
telling and comparing notes on the past summer and all its doings.
Such a rich chapter it had been, when one came to look back on it all! With
illustrations so numerous and so very highly-coloured! The pageant of the
river bank had marched steadily along, unfolding itself in scene-pictures that
succeeded each other in stately procession. Purple loosestrife arrived early,
shaking luxuriant tangled locks along the edge of the mirror whence its own
face laughed back at it. Willow-herb, tender and wistful, like a pink sunset
cloud, was not slow to follow. Comfrey, the purple hand-in-hand with the
white, crept forth to take its place in the line; and at last one morning the
diffident and delaying dog-rose stepped delicately on the stage, and one
knew, as if string-music had announced it in stately chords that strayed into a
gavotte, that June at last was here. One member of the company was still
awaited; the shepherd-boy for the nymphs to woo, the knight for whom the
ladies waited at the window, the prince that was to kiss the sleeping summer
back to life and love. But when meadow-sweet, debonair and odorous in
amber jerkin, moved graciously to his place in the group, then the play was
ready to begin.
And what a play it had been! Drowsy animals, snug in their holes while wind
and rain were battering at their doors, recalled still keen mornings, an hour
before sunrise, when the white mist, as yet undispersed, clung closely along
the surface of the water; then the shock of the early plunge, the scamper
along the bank, and the radiant transformation of earth, air, and water, when

suddenly the sun was with them again, and grey was gold and colour was
born and sprang out of the earth once more. They recalled the languorous
siesta of hot mid-day, deep in green undergrowth, the sun striking through in
tiny golden shafts and spots; the boating and bathing of the afternoon, the
rambles along dusty lanes and through yellow corn-fields; and the long, cool
evening at last, when so many threads were gathered up, so many friendships
rounded, and so many adventures planned for the morrow. There was plenty
to talk about on those short winter days when the animals found themselves
round the fire; still, the Mole had a good deal of spare time on his hands, and
so one afternoon, when the Rat in his arm-chair before the blaze was
alternately dozing and trying over rhymes that wouldn't fit, he formed the
resolution to go out by himself and explore the Wild Wood, and perhaps
strike up an acquaintance with Mr. Badger.
It was a cold, still afternoon with a hard, steely sky overhead, when he
slipped out of the warm parlour into the open air. The country lay bare and
entirely leafless around him, and he thought that he had never seen so far and
so intimately into the insides of things as on that winter day when Nature was
deep in her annual slumber and seemed to have kicked the clothes off.
Copses, dells, quarries, and all hidden places, which had been mysterious
mines for exploration in leafy summer, now exposed themselves and their
secrets pathetically, and seemed to ask him to overlook their shabby poverty
for a while, till they could riot in rich masquerade as before, and trick and
entice him with the old deceptions. It was pitiful in a way, and yet cheering—
even exhilarating. He was glad that he liked the country undecorated, hard,
and stripped of its finery. He had got down to the bare bones of it, and they
were fine and strong and simple. He did not want the warm clover and the
play of seeding grasses; the screens of quickset, the billowy drapery of beech
and elm seemed best away; and with great cheerfulness of spirit he pushed on
towards the Wild Wood, which lay before him low and threatening, like a
black reef in some still southern sea.
There was nothing to alarm him at first entry. Twigs crackled under his feet,
logs tripped him, funguses on stumps resembled caricatures, and startled him
for the moment by their likeness to something familiar and far away; but that
was all fun, and exciting. It led him on, and he penetrated to where the light
was less, and trees crouched nearer and nearer, and holes made ugly mouths
at him on either side.

Everything was very still now. The dusk advanced on him steadily, rapidly,
gathering in behind and before; and the light seemed to be draining away like
flood-water.
Then the faces began.
It was over his shoulder, and indistinctly, that he first thought he saw a face, a
little, evil, wedge-shaped face, looking out at him from a hole. When he
turned and confronted it, the thing had vanished.
He quickened his pace, telling himself cheerfully not to begin imagining
things or there would be simply no end to it. He passed another hole, and
another, and another; and then—yes!—no!—yes! certainly a little, narrow
face, with hard eyes, had flashed up for an instant from a hole, and was gone.
He hesitated—braced himself up for an effort and strode on. Then suddenly,
and as if it had been so all the time, every hole, far and near, and there were
hundreds of them, seemed to possess its face, coming and going rapidly, all
fixing on him glances of malice and hatred: all hard-eyed and evil and sharp.
If he could only get away from the holes in the banks, he thought, there
would be no more faces. He swung off the path and plunged into the
untrodden places of the wood.
Then the whistling began.
Very faint and shrill it was, and far behind him, when first he heard it; but
somehow it made him hurry forward. Then, still very faint and shrill, it
sounded far ahead of him, and made him hesitate and want to go back. As he
halted in indecision it broke out on either side, and seemed to be caught up
and passed on throughout the whole length of the wood to its farthest limit.
They were up and alert and ready, evidently, whoever they were! And he—he
was alone, and unarmed, and far from any help; and the night was closing in.
Then the pattering began.
He thought it was only falling leaves at first, so slight and delicate was the
sound of it. Then as it grew it took a regular rhythm, and he knew it for
nothing else but the pat-pat-pat of little feet still a very long way off. Was it in
front or behind? It seemed to be first one, and then the other, then both. It
grew and it multiplied, till from every quarter as he listened anxiously,
leaning this way and that, it seemed to be closing in on him. As he stood still

to hearken, a rabbit came running hard towards him through the trees. He
waited, expecting it to slacken pace or to swerve from him into a different
course. Instead, the animal almost brushed him as it dashed past, his face set
and hard, his eyes staring. "Get out of this, you fool, get out!" the Mole heard
him mutter as he swung round a stump and disappeared down a friendly
burrow.
The pattering increased till it sounded like sudden hail on the dry leaf-carpet
spread around him. The whole wood seemed running now, running hard,
hunting, chasing, closing in round something or—somebody? In panic, he
began to run too, aimlessly, he knew not whither. He ran up against things, he
fell over things and into things, he darted under things and dodged round
things. At last he took refuge in the deep, dark hollow of an old beech tree,
which offered shelter, concealment—perhaps even safety, but who could tell?
Anyhow, he was too tired to run any further, and could only snuggle down
into the dry leaves which had drifted into the hollow and hope he was safe for
a time. And as he lay there panting and trembling, and listened to the
whistlings and the patterings outside, he knew it at last, in all its fulness, that
dread thing which other little dwellers in field and hedgerow had encountered
here, and known as their darkest moment—that thing which the Rat had
vainly tried to shield him from—the Terror of the Wild Wood!

In panic, he began to run
Meantime the Rat, warm and comfortable, dozed by his fireside. His paper of
half-finished verses slipped from his knee, his head fell back, his mouth
opened, and he wandered by the verdant banks of dream-rivers. Then a coal
slipped, the fire crackled and sent up a spurt of flame, and he woke with a
start. Remembering what he had been engaged upon, he reached down to the
floor for his verses, pored over them for a minute, and then looked round for
the Mole to ask him if he knew a good rhyme for something or other.
But the Mole was not there.
He listened for a time. The house seemed very quiet.

Then he called "Moly!" several times, and, receiving no answer, got up and
went out into the hall.
The Mole's cap was missing from its accustomed peg. His goloshes, which
always lay by the umbrella-stand, were also gone.
The Rat left the house, and carefully examined the muddy surface of the
ground outside, hoping to find the Mole's tracks. There they were, sure
enough. The goloshes were new, just bought for the winter, and the pimples
on their soles were fresh and sharp. He could see the imprints of them in the
mud, running along straight and purposeful, leading direct to the Wild Wood.
The Rat looked very grave, and stood in deep thought for a minute or two.
Then he re-entered the house, strapped a belt round his waist, shoved a brace
of pistols into it, took up a stout cudgel that stood in a corner of the hall, and
set off for the Wild Wood at a smart pace.
It was already getting towards dusk when he reached the first fringe of trees
and plunged without hesitation into the wood, looking anxiously on either
side for any sign of his friend. Here and there wicked little faces popped out
of holes, but vanished immediately at sight of the valorous animal, his
pistols, and the great ugly cudgel in his grasp; and the whistling and
pattering, which he had heard quite plainly on his first entry, died away and
ceased, and all was very still. He made his way manfully through the length
of the wood, to its furthest edge; then, forsaking all paths, he set himself to
traverse it, laboriously working over the whole ground, and all the time
calling out cheerfully, "Moly, Moly, Moly! Where are you? It's me—it's old
Rat!"
He had patiently hunted through the wood for an hour or more, when at last
to his joy he heard a little answering cry. Guiding himself by the sound, he
made his way through the gathering darkness to the foot of an old beech tree,
with a hole in it, and from out of the hole came a feeble voice, saying "Ratty!
Is that really you?"
The Rat crept into the hollow, and there he found the Mole, exhausted and
still trembling. "O Rat!" he cried, "I've been so frightened, you can't think!"
"O, I quite understand," said the Rat soothingly. "You shouldn't really have
gone and done it, Mole. I did my best to keep you from it. We river-bankers,

we hardly ever come here by ourselves. If we have to come, we come in
couples at least; then we're generally all right. Besides, there are a hundred
things one has to know, which we understand all about and you don't, as yet. I
mean passwords, and signs, and sayings which have power and effect, and
plants you carry in your pocket, and verses you repeat, and dodges and tricks
you practise; all simple enough when you know them, but they've got to be
known if you're small, or you'll find yourself in trouble. Of course if you
were Badger or Otter, it would be quite another matter."
"Surely the brave Mr. Toad wouldn't mind coming here by himself, would
he?" inquired the Mole.
"Old Toad?" said the Rat, laughing heartily. "He wouldn't show his face here
alone, not for a whole hatful of golden guineas, Toad wouldn't."
The Mole was greatly cheered by the sound of the Rat's careless laughter, as
well as by the sight of his stick and his gleaming pistols, and he stopped
shivering and began to feel bolder and more himself again.
"Now then," said the Rat presently, "we really must pull ourselves together
and make a start for home while there's still a little light left. It will never do
to spend the night here, you understand. Too cold, for one thing."
"Dear Ratty," said the poor Mole, "I'm dreadfully sorry, but I'm simply dead
beat and that's a solid fact. You must let me rest here a while longer, and get
my strength back, if I'm to get home at all."
"O, all right," said the good-natured Rat, "rest away. It's pretty nearly pitch
dark now, anyhow; and there ought to be a bit of a moon later."
So the Mole got well into the dry leaves and stretched himself out, and
presently dropped off into sleep, though of a broken and troubled sort; while
the Rat covered himself up, too, as best he might, for warmth, and lay
patiently waiting, with a pistol in his paw.
When at last the Mole woke up, much refreshed and in his usual spirits, the
Rat said, "Now then! I'll just take a look outside and see if everything's quiet,
and then we really must be off."
He went to the entrance of their retreat and put his head out. Then the Mole
heard him saying quietly to himself, "Hullo! hullo! here—is—a—go!"

"What's up, Ratty?" asked the Mole.
"Snow is up," replied the Rat briefly; "or rather, down. It's snowing hard."
The Mole came and crouched beside him, and, looking out, saw the wood
that had been so dreadful to him in quite a changed aspect. Holes, hollows,
pools, pitfalls, and other black menaces to the wayfarer were vanishing fast,
and a gleaming carpet of faery was springing up everywhere, that looked too
delicate to be trodden upon by rough feet. A fine powder filled the air and
caressed the cheek with a tingle in its touch, and the black boles of the trees
showed up in a light that seemed to come from below.
"Well, well, it can't be helped," said the Rat, after pondering. "We must make
a start, and take our chance, I suppose. The worst of it is, I don't exactly know
where we are. And now this snow makes everything look so very different."
It did indeed. The Mole would not have known that it was the same wood.
However, they set out bravely, and took the line that seemed most promising,
holding on to each other and pretending with invincible cheerfulness that
they recognised an old friend in every fresh tree that grimly and silently
greeted them, or saw openings, gaps, or paths with a familiar turn in them, in
the monotony of white space and black tree-trunks that refused to vary.
An hour or two later—they had lost all count of time—they pulled up,
dispirited, weary, and hopelessly at sea, and sat down on a fallen tree-trunk to
recover their breath and consider what was to be done. They were aching
with fatigue and bruised with tumbles; they had fallen into several holes and
got wet through; the snow was getting so deep that they could hardly drag
their little legs through it, and the trees were thicker and more like each other
than ever. There seemed to be no end to this wood, and no beginning, and no
difference in it, and, worst of all, no way out.
"We can't sit here very long," said the Rat. "We shall have to make another
push for it, and do something or other. The cold is too awful for anything, and
the snow will soon be too deep for us to wade through." He peered about him
and considered. "Look here," he went on, "this is what occurs to me. There's
a sort of dell down here in front of us, where the ground seems all hilly and
humpy and hummocky. We'll make our way down into that, and try and find
some sort of shelter, a cave or hole with a dry floor to it, out of the snow and
the wind, and there we'll have a good rest before we try again, for we're both

of us pretty dead beat. Besides, the snow may leave off, or something may
turn up."
So once more they got on their feet, and struggled down into the dell, where
they hunted about for a cave or some corner that was dry and a protection
from the keen wind and the whirling snow. They were investigating one of
the hummocky bits the Rat had spoken of, when suddenly the Mole tripped
up and fell forward on his face with a squeal.
"O my leg!" he cried. "O my poor shin!" and he sat up on the snow and
nursed his leg in both his front paws.
"Poor old Mole!" said the Rat kindly. "You don't seem to be having much
luck to-day, do you? Let's have a look at the leg. Yes," he went on, going
down on his knees to look, "you've cut your shin, sure enough. Wait till I get
at my handkerchief, and I'll tie it up for you."
"I must have tripped over a hidden branch or a stump," said the Mole
miserably. "O, my! O, my!"
"It's a very clean cut," said the Rat, examining it again attentively. "That was
never done by a branch or a stump. Looks as if it was made by a sharp edge
of something in metal. Funny!" He pondered awhile, and examined the
humps and slopes that surrounded them.
"Well, never mind what done it," said the Mole, forgetting his grammar in his
pain. "It hurts just the same, whatever done it."
But the Rat, after carefully tying up the leg with his handkerchief, had left
him and was busy scraping in the snow. He scratched and shovelled and
explored, all four legs working busily, while the Mole waited impatiently,
remarking at intervals, "O, come on, Rat!"
Suddenly the Rat cried "Hooray!" and then "Hooray-oo-ray-oo-ray-oo-ray!"
and fell to executing a feeble jig in the snow.
"What have you found, Ratty?" asked the Mole, still nursing his leg.
"Come and see!" said the delighted Rat, as he jigged on.
The Mole hobbled up to the spot and had a good look.

"Well," he said at last, slowly, "I see it right enough. Seen the same sort of
thing before, lots of times. Familiar object, I call it. A door-scraper! Well,
what of it? Why dance jigs around a door-scraper?"
"But don't you see what it means, you—you dull-witted animal?" cried the
Rat impatiently.
"Of course I see what it means," replied the Mole. "It simply means that some
very careless and forgetful person has left his door-scraper lying about in the
middle of the Wild Wood, just where it's sure to trip everybody up. Very
thoughtless of him, I call it. When I get home I shall go and complain about it
to—to somebody or other, see if I don't!"
"O, dear! O, dear!" cried the Rat, in despair at his obtuseness. "Here, stop
arguing and come and scrape!" And he set to work again and made the snow
fly in all directions around him.
After some further toil his efforts were rewarded, and a very shabby door-mat
lay exposed to view.
"There, what did I tell you?" exclaimed the Rat in great triumph.
"Absolutely nothing whatever," replied the Mole, with perfect truthfulness.
"Well, now," he went on, "you seem to have found another piece of domestic
litter, done for and thrown away, and I suppose you're perfectly happy. Better
go ahead and dance your jig round that if you've got to, and get it over, and
then perhaps we can go on and not waste any more time over rubbish-heaps.
Can we eat a door-mat? Or sleep under a door-mat? Or sit on a door-mat and
sledge home over the snow on it, you exasperating rodent?"
"Do—you—mean—to—say," cried the excited Rat, "that this door-mat
doesn't tell you anything?"
"Really, Rat," said the Mole, quite pettishly, "I think we've had enough of this
folly. Who ever heard of a door-mat telling any one anything? They simply
don't do it. They are not that sort at all. Door-mats know their place."
"Now look here, you—you thick-headed beast," replied the Rat, really angry,
"this must stop. Not another word, but scrape—scrape and scratch and dig
and hunt round, especially on the sides of the hummocks, if you want to sleep
dry and warm to-night, for it's our last chance!"

The Rat attacked a snow-bank beside them with ardour, probing with his
cudgel everywhere and then digging with fury; and the Mole scraped busily
too, more to oblige the Rat than for any other reason, for his opinion was that
his friend was getting light-headed.
Some ten minutes' hard work, and the point of the Rat's cudgel struck
something that sounded hollow. He worked till he could get a paw through
and feel; then called the Mole to come and help him. Hard at it went the two
animals, till at last the result of their labours stood full in view of the
astonished and hitherto incredulous Mole.
In the side of what had seemed to be a snow-bank stood a solid-looking little
door, painted a dark green. An iron bell-pull hung by the side, and below it,
on a small brass plate, neatly engraved in square capital letters, they could
read by the aid of moonlight

MR.
BADGER
.

The Mole fell backwards on the snow from sheer surprise and delight. "Rat!"
he cried in penitence, "you're a wonder! A real wonder, that's what you are. I
see it all now! You argued it out, step by step, in that wise head of yours,
from the very moment that I fell and cut my shin, and you looked at the cut,
and at once your majestic mind said to itself, 'Door-scraper!' And then you
turned to and found the very door-scraper that done it! Did you stop there?
No. Some people would have been quite satisfied; but not you. Your intellect
went on working. 'Let me only just find a door-mat,' says you to yourself,
'and my theory is proved!' And of course you found your door-mat. You're so
clever, I believe you could find anything you liked. 'Now,' says you, 'that door
exists, as plain as if I saw it. There's nothing else remains to be done but to
find it!' Well, I've read about that sort of thing in books, but I've never come
across it before in real life. You ought to go where you'll be properly
appreciated. You're simply wasted here, among us fellows. If I only had your
head, Ratty—"

"But as you haven't," interrupted the Rat, rather unkindly, "I suppose you're
going to sit on the snow all night and talk? Get up at once and hang on to that
bell-pull you see there, and ring hard, as hard as you can, while I hammer!"
While the Rat attacked the door with his stick, the Mole sprang up at the bell-
pull, clutched it and swung there, both feet well off the ground, and from
quite a long way off they could faintly hear a deep-toned bell respond.

IV

MR. BADGER

T
HEY waited patiently for what seemed a very long time, stamping in
the snow to keep their feet warm. At last they heard the sound of slow
shuffling footsteps approaching the door from the inside. It seemed, as
the Mole remarked to the Rat, like some one walking in carpet slippers that
were too large for him and down at heel; which was intelligent of Mole,
because that was exactly what it was.
There was the noise of a bolt shot back, and the door opened a few inches,
enough to show a long snout and a pair of sleepy blinking eyes.
"Now, the very next time this happens," said a gruff and suspicious voice, "I
shall be exceedingly angry. Who is it this time, disturbing people on such a
night? Speak up!"
"Oh, Badger," cried the Rat, "let us in, please. It's me, Rat, and my friend
Mole, and we've lost our way in the snow."
"What, Ratty, my dear little man!" exclaimed the Badger, in quite a different
voice. "Come along in, both of you, at once. Why, you must be perished.
Well, I never! Lost in the snow! And in the Wild Wood, too, and at this time
of night! But come in with you."
The two animals tumbled over each other in their eagerness to get inside, and
heard the door shut behind them with great joy and relief.
The Badger, who wore a long dressing-gown, and whose slippers were
indeed very down at heel, carried a flat candlestick in his paw and had
probably been on his way to bed when their summons sounded. He looked
kindly down on them and patted both their heads. "This is not the sort of

night for small animals to be out," he said paternally. "I'm afraid you've been
up to some of your pranks again, Ratty. But come along; come into the
kitchen. There's a first-rate fire there, and supper and everything."
He shuffled on in front of them, carrying the light, and they followed him,
nudging each other in an anticipating sort of way, down a long, gloomy, and,
to tell the truth, decidedly shabby passage, into a sort of a central hall, out of
which they could dimly see other long tunnel-like passages branching,
passages mysterious and without apparent end. But there were doors in the
hall as well—stout oaken, comfortable-looking doors. One of these the
Badger flung open, and at once they found themselves in all the glow and
warmth of a large fire-lit kitchen.
The floor was well-worn red brick, and on the wide hearth burnt a fire of
logs, between two attractive chimney-corners tucked away in the wall, well
out of any suspicion of draught. A couple of high-backed settles, facing each
other on either side of the fire, gave further sitting accommodations for the
sociably disposed. In the middle of the room stood a long table of plain
boards placed on trestles, with benches down each side. At one end of it,
where an arm-chair stood pushed back, were spread the remains of the
Badger's plain but ample supper. Rows of spotless plates winked from the
shelves of the dresser at the far end of the room, and from the rafters
overhead hung hams, bundles of dried herbs, nets of onions, and baskets of
eggs. It seemed a place where heroes could fitly feast after victory, where
weary harvesters could line up in scores along the table and keep their
Harvest Home with mirth and song, or where two or three friends of simple
tastes could sit about as they pleased and eat and smoke and talk in comfort
and contentment. The ruddy brick floor smiled up at the smoky ceiling; the
oaken settles, shiny with long wear, exchanged cheerful glances with each
other; plates on the dresser grinned at pots on the shelf, and the merry
firelight flickered and played over everything without distinction.
The kindly Badger thrust them down on a settle to toast themselves at the
fire, and bade them remove their wet coats and boots. Then he fetched them
dressing-gowns and slippers, and himself bathed the Mole's shin with warm
water and mended the cut with sticking-plaster, till the whole thing was just
as good as new, if not better. In the embracing light and warmth, warm and
dry at last, with weary legs propped up in front of them, and a suggestive
clink of plates being arranged on the table behind, it seemed to the storm-

driven animals, now in safe anchorage, that the cold and trackless Wild Wood
just left outside was miles and miles away, and all that they had suffered in it
a half-forgotten dream.
When at last they were thoroughly toasted, the Badger summoned them to the
table, where he had been busy laying a repast. They had felt pretty hungry
before, but when they actually saw at last the supper that was spread for
them, really it seemed only a question of what they should attack first where
all was so attractive, and whether the other things would obligingly wait for
them till they had time to give them attention. Conversation was impossible
for a long time; and when it was slowly resumed, it was that regrettable sort
of conversation that results from talking with your mouth full. The Badger
did not mind that sort of thing at all, nor did he take any notice of elbows on
the table, or everybody speaking at once. As he did not go into Society
himself, he had got an idea that these things belonged to the things that didn't
really matter. (We know of course that he was wrong, and took too narrow a
view; because they do matter very much, though it would take too long to
explain why.) He sat in his arm-chair at the head of the table, and nodded
gravely at intervals as the animals told their story; and he did not seem
surprised or shocked at anything, and he never said, "I told you so," or, "Just
what I always said," or remarked that they ought to have done so-and-so, or
ought not to have done something else. The Mole began to feel very friendly
towards him.
When supper was really finished at last, and each animal felt that his skin was
now as tight as was decently safe, and that by this time he didn't care a hang
for anybody or anything, they gathered round the glowing embers of the great
wood fire, and thought how jolly it was to be sitting up so late, and so
independent, and so full; and after they had chatted for a time about things in
general, the Badger said heartily, "Now then! tell us the news from your part
of the world. How's old Toad going on?"
"Oh, from bad to worse," said the Rat gravely, while the Mole, cocked up on
a settle and basking in the firelight, his heels higher than his head, tried to
look properly mournful. "Another smash-up only last week, and a bad one.
You see, he will insist on driving himself, and he's hopelessly incapable. If
he'd only employ a decent, steady, well-trained animal, pay him good wages,
and leave everything to him, he'd get on all right. But no; he's convinced he's

a heaven-born driver, and nobody can teach him anything; and all the rest
follows."
"How many has he had?" inquired the Badger gloomily.
"Smashes, or machines?" asked the Rat. "Oh, well, after all, it's the same
thing—with Toad. This is the seventh. As for the others—you know that
coach-house of his? Well, it's piled up—literally piled up to the roof—with
fragments of motor-cars, none of them bigger than your hat! That accounts
for the other six—so far as they can be accounted for."
"He's been in hospital three times," put in the Mole; "and as for the fines he's
had to pay, it's simply awful to think of."
"Yes, and that's part of the trouble," continued the Rat. "Toad's rich, we all
know; but he's not a millionaire. And he's a hopelessly bad driver, and quite
regardless of law and order. Killed or ruined—it's got to be one of the two
things, sooner or later. Badger! we're his friends—oughtn't we to do
something?"
The Badger went through a bit of hard thinking. "Now look here!" he said at
last, rather severely; "of course you know I can't do anything now?"
His two friends assented, quite understanding his point. No animal, according
to the rules of animal etiquette, is ever expected to do anything strenuous, or
heroic, or even moderately active during the off-season of winter. All are
sleepy—some actually asleep. All are weather-bound, more or less; and all
are resting from arduous days and nights, during which every muscle in them
has been severely tested, and every energy kept at full stretch.
"Very well then!" continued the Badger. "But, when once the year has really
turned, and the nights are shorter, and half-way through them one rouses and
feels fidgety and wanting to be up and doing by sunrise, if not before—you
know!—"
Both animals nodded gravely. They knew!
"Well, then," went on the Badger, "we—that is, you and me and our friend
the Mole here—we'll take Toad seriously in hand. We'll stand no nonsense
whatever. We'll bring him back to reason, by force if need be. We'll make him
be a sensible Toad. We'll—you're asleep, Rat!"

"Not me!" said the Rat, waking up with a jerk.
"He's been asleep two or three times since supper," said the Mole, laughing.
He himself was feeling quite wakeful and even lively, though he didn't know
why. The reason was, of course, that he being naturally an underground
animal by birth and breeding, the situation of Badger's house exactly suited
him and made him feel at home; while the Rat, who slept every night in a
bedroom the windows of which opened on a breezy river, naturally felt the
atmosphere still and oppressive.
"Well, it's time we were all in bed," said the Badger, getting up and fetching
flat candlesticks. "Come along, you two, and I'll show you your quarters. And
take your time to-morrow morning—breakfast at any hour you please!"
He conducted the two animals to a long room that seemed half bedchamber
and half loft. The Badger's winter stores, which indeed were visible
everywhere, took up half the room—piles of apples, turnips, and potatoes,
baskets full of nuts, and jars of honey; but the two little white beds on the
remainder of the floor looked soft and inviting, and the linen on them, though
coarse, was clean and smelt beautifully of lavender; and the Mole and the
Water Rat, shaking off their garments in some thirty seconds, tumbled in
between the sheets in great joy and contentment.
In accordance with the kindly Badger's injunctions, the two tired animals
came down to breakfast very late next morning, and found a bright fire
burning in the kitchen, and two young hedgehogs sitting on a bench at the
table, eating oatmeal porridge out of wooden bowls. The hedgehogs dropped
their spoons, rose to their feet, and ducked their heads respectfully as the two
entered.
"There, sit down, sit down," said the Rat pleasantly, "and go on with your
porridge. Where have you youngsters come from? Lost your way in the snow,
I suppose?"
"Yes, please, sir," said the elder of the two hedgehogs respectfully. "Me and
little Billy here, we was trying to find our way to school—mother would have
us go, was the weather ever so—and of course we lost ourselves, sir, and
Billy he got frightened and took and cried, being young and faint-hearted.
And at last we happened up against Mr. Badger's back door, and made so

bold as to knock, sir, for Mr. Badger he's a kind-hearted gentleman, as every
one knows—"
"I understand," said the Rat, cutting himself some rashers from a side of
bacon, while the Mole dropped some eggs into a saucepan. "And what's the
weather like outside? You needn't 'sir' me quite so much," he added.
"O, terrible bad, sir, terrible deep the snow is," said the hedgehog. "No
getting out for the likes of you gentlemen to-day."
"Where's Mr. Badger?" inquired the Mole as he warmed the coffee-pot before
the fire.
"The master's gone into his study, sir," replied the hedgehog, "and he said as
how he was going to be particular busy this morning, and on no account was
he to be disturbed."
This explanation, of course, was thoroughly understood by every one present.
The fact is, as already set forth, when you live a life of intense activity for six
months in the year, and of comparative or actual somnolence for the other
six, during the latter period you cannot be continually pleading sleepiness
when there are people about or things to be done. The excuse gets
monotonous. The animals well knew that Badger, having eaten a hearty
breakfast, had retired to his study and settled himself in an arm-chair with his
legs up on another and a red cotton handkerchief over his face, and was being
"busy" in the usual way at this time of the year.
The front-door bell clanged loudly, and the Rat, who was very greasy with
buttered toast, sent Billy, the smaller hedgehog, to see who it might be. There
was a sound of much stamping in the hall, and presently Billy returned in
front of the Otter, who threw himself on the Rat with an embrace and a shout
of affectionate greeting.
"Get off!" spluttered the Rat, with his mouth full.
"Thought I should find you here all right," said the Otter cheerfully. "They
were all in a great state of alarm along River Bank when I arrived this
morning. Rat never been home all night—nor Mole either—something
dreadful must have happened, they said; and the snow had covered up all
your tracks, of course. But I knew that when people were in any fix they
mostly went to Badger, or else Badger got to know of it somehow, so I came

straight off here, through the Wild Wood and the snow! My! it was fine,
coming through the snow as the red sun was rising and showing against the
black tree-trunks! As you went along in the stillness, every now and then
masses of snow slid off the branches suddenly with a flop! making you jump
and run for cover. Snow-castles and snow-caverns had sprung up out of
nowhere in the night—and snow bridges, terraces, ramparts—I could have
stayed and played with them for hours. Here and there great branches had
been torn away by the sheer weight of the snow, and robins perched and
hopped on them in their perky conceited way, just as if they had done it
themselves. A ragged string of wild geese passed overhead, high on the grey
sky, and a few rooks whirled over the trees, inspected, and flapped off
homewards with a disgusted expression; but I met no sensible being to ask
the news of. About half-way across I came on a rabbit sitting on a stump,
cleaning his silly face with his paws. He was a pretty scared animal when I
crept up behind him and placed a heavy fore-paw on his shoulder. I had to
cuff his head once or twice to get any sense out of it at all. At last I managed
to extract from him that Mole had been seen in the Wild Wood last night by
one of them. It was the talk of the burrows, he said, how Mole, Mr. Rat's
particular friend, was in a bad fix; how he had lost his way, and 'They' were
up and out hunting, and were chivvying him round and round. 'Then why
didn't any of you do something?' I asked. 'You mayn't be blessed with brains,
but there are hundreds and hundreds of you, big, stout fellows, as fat as
butter, and your burrows running in all directions, and you could have taken
him in and made him safe and comfortable, or tried to, at all events.' 'What,
us?' he merely said: 'do something? us rabbits?' So I cuffed him again and left
him. There was nothing else to be done. At any rate, I had learnt something;
and if I had had the luck to meet any of 'Them' I'd have learnt something
more—or they would."

Through the Wild Wood and the snow
"Weren't you at all—er—nervous?" asked the Mole, some of yesterday's
terror coming back to him at the mention of the Wild Wood.
"Nervous?" The Otter showed a gleaming set of strong white teeth as he
laughed. "I'd give 'em nerves if any of them tried anything on with me. Here,
Mole, fry me some slices of ham, like the good little chap you are. I'm
frightfully hungry, and I've got any amount to say to Ratty here. Haven't seen
him for an age."
So the good-natured Mole, having cut some slices of ham, set the hedgehogs
to fry it, and returned to his own breakfast, while the Otter and the Rat, their

heads together, eagerly talked river-shop, which is long shop and talk that is
endless, running on like the babbling river itself.
A plate of fried ham had just been cleared and sent back for more, when the
Badger entered, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and greeted them all in his
quiet, simple way, with kind inquiries for every one. "It must be getting on
for luncheon time," he remarked to the Otter. "Better stop and have it with us.
You must be hungry, this cold morning."
"Rather!" replied the Otter, winking at the Mole. "The sight of these greedy
young hedgehogs stuffing themselves with fried ham makes me feel
positively famished."
The hedgehogs, who were just beginning to feel hungry again after their
porridge, and after working so hard at their frying, looked timidly up at Mr.
Badger, but were too shy to say anything.
"Here, you two youngsters, be off home to your mother," said the Badger
kindly. "I'll send some one with you to show you the way. You won't want
any dinner to-day, I'll be bound."
He gave them sixpence a-piece and a pat on the head, and they went off with
much respectful swinging of caps and touching of forelocks.
Presently they all sat down to luncheon together. The Mole found himself
placed next to Mr. Badger, and, as the other two were still deep in river-
gossip from which nothing could divert them, he took the opportunity to tell
Badger how comfortable and home-like it all felt to him. "Once well
underground," he said, "you know exactly where you are. Nothing can
happen to you, and nothing can get at you. You're entirely your own master,
and you don't have to consult anybody or mind what they say. Things go on
all the same overhead, and you let 'em, and don't bother about 'em. When you
want to, up you go, and there the things are, waiting for you."
The Badger simply beamed on him. "That's exactly what I say," he replied.
"There's no security, or peace and tranquillity, except underground. And then,
if your ideas get larger and you want to expand—why, a dig and a scrape, and
there you are! If you feel your house is a bit too big, you stop up a hole or
two, and there you are again! No builders, no tradesmen, no remarks passed
on you by fellows looking over your wall, and, above all, no weather. Look

at Rat, now. A couple of feet of flood water, and he's got to move into hired
lodgings; uncomfortable, inconveniently situated, and horribly expensive.
Take Toad. I say nothing against Toad Hall; quite the best house in these
parts, as a house. But supposing a fire breaks out—where's Toad? Supposing
tiles are blown off, or walls sink or crack, or windows get broken—where's
Toad? Supposing the rooms are draughty—I hate a draught myself—where's
Toad? No, up and out of doors is good enough to roam about and get one's
living in; but underground to come back to at last—that's my idea of home!"
The Mole assented heartily; and the Badger in consequence got very friendly
with him. "When lunch is over," he said, "I'll take you all round this little
place of mine. I can see you'll appreciate it. You understand what domestic
architecture ought to be, you do."
After luncheon, accordingly, when the other two had settled themselves into
the chimney-corner and had started a heated argument on the subject of eels,
the Badger lighted a lantern and bade the Mole follow him. Crossing the hall,
they passed down one of the principal tunnels, and the wavering light of the
lantern gave glimpses on either side of rooms both large and small, some
mere cupboards, others nearly as broad and imposing as Toad's dining-hall. A
narrow passage at right angles led them into another corridor, and here the
same thing was repeated. The Mole was staggered at the size, the extent, the
ramifications of it all; at the length of the dim passages, the solid vaultings of
the crammed store-chambers, the masonry everywhere, the pillars, the arches,
the pavements. "How on earth, Badger," he said at last, "did you ever find
time and strength to do all this? It's astonishing!"
"It would be astonishing indeed," said the Badger simply, "if I had done it.
But as a matter of fact I did none of it—only cleaned out the passages and
chambers, as far as I had need of them. There's lots more of it, all round
about. I see you don't understand, and I must explain it to you. Well, very
long ago, on the spot where the Wild Wood waves now, before ever it had
planted itself and grown up to what it now is, there was a city—a city of
people, you know. Here, where we are standing, they lived, and walked, and
talked, and slept, and carried on their business. Here they stabled their horses
and feasted, from here they rode out to fight or drove out to trade. They were
a powerful people, and rich, and great builders. They built to last, for they
thought their city would last for ever."

"But what has become of them all?" asked the Mole.
"Who can tell?" said the Badger. "People come—they stay for a while, they
flourish, they build—and they go. It is their way. But we remain. There were
badgers here, I've been told, long before that same city ever came to be. And
now there are badgers here again. We are an enduring lot, and we may move
out for a time, but we wait, and are patient, and back we come. And so it will
ever be."
"Well, and when they went at last, those people?" said the Mole.
"When they went," continued the Badger, "the strong winds and persistent
rains took the matter in hand, patiently, ceaselessly, year after year. Perhaps
we badgers too, in our small way, helped a little—who knows? It was all
down, down, down, gradually—ruin and levelling and disappearance. Then it
was all up, up, up, gradually, as seeds grew to saplings, and saplings to forest
trees, and bramble and fern came creeping in to help. Leaf-mould rose and
obliterated, streams in their winter freshets brought sand and soil to clog and
to cover, and in course of time our home was ready for us again, and we
moved in. Up above us, on the surface, the same thing happened. Animals
arrived, liked the look of the place, took up their quarters, settled down,
spread, and flourished. They didn't bother themselves about the past—they
never do; they're too busy. The place was a bit humpy and hillocky, naturally,
and full of holes; but that was rather an advantage. And they don't bother
about the future, either—the future when perhaps the people will move in
again—for a time—as may very well be. The Wild Wood is pretty well
populated by now; with all the usual lot, good, bad, and indifferent—I name
no names. It takes all sorts to make a world. But I fancy you know something
about them yourself by this time."
"I do indeed," said the Mole, with a slight shiver.
"Well, well," said the Badger, patting him on the shoulder, "it was your first
experience of them, you see. They're not so bad really; and we must all live
and let live. But I'll pass the word around to-morrow, and I think you'll have
no further trouble. Any friend of mine walks where he likes in this country, or
I'll know the reason why!"
When they got back to the kitchen again, they found the Rat walking up and
down, very restless. The underground atmosphere was oppressing him and

getting on his nerves, and he seemed really to be afraid that the river would
run away if he wasn't there to look after it. So he had his overcoat on, and his
pistols thrust into his belt again. "Come along, Mole," he said anxiously, as
soon as he caught sight of them. "We must get off while it's daylight. Don't
want to spend another night in the Wild Wood again."
"It'll be all right, my fine fellow," said the Otter. "I'm coming along with you,
and I know every path blindfold; and if there's a head that needs to be
punched, you can confidently rely upon me to punch it."
"You really needn't fret, Ratty," added the Badger placidly. "My passages run
further than you think, and I've bolt-holes to the edge of the wood in several
directions, though I don't care for everybody to know about them. When you
really have to go, you shall leave by one of my short cuts. Meantime, make
yourself easy, and sit down again."
The Rat was nevertheless still anxious to be off and attend to his river, so the
Badger, taking up his lantern again, led the way along a damp and airless
tunnel that wound and dipped, part vaulted, part hewn through solid rock, for
a weary distance that seemed to be miles. At last daylight began to show
itself confusedly through tangled growth overhanging the mouth of the
passage; and the Badger, bidding them a hasty good-bye, pushed them
hurriedly through the opening, made everything look as natural as possible
again, with creepers, brushwood, and dead leaves, and retreated.
They found themselves standing on the very edge of the Wild Wood. Rocks
and brambles and tree-roots behind them, confusedly heaped and tangled; in
front, a great space of quiet fields, hemmed by lines of hedges black on the
snow, and, far ahead, a glint of the familiar old river, while the wintry sun
hung red and low on the horizon. The Otter, as knowing all the paths, took
charge of the party, and they trailed out on a bee-line for a distant stile.
Pausing there a moment and looking back, they saw the whole mass of the
Wild Wood, dense, menacing, compact, grimly set in vast white
surroundings; simultaneously they turned and made swiftly for home, for
firelight and the familiar things it played on, for the voice, sounding cheerily
outside their window, of the river that they knew and trusted in all its moods,
that never made them afraid with any amazement.
As he hurried along, eagerly anticipating the moment when he would be at
home again among the things he knew and liked, the Mole saw clearly that he

was an animal of tilled field and hedgerow, linked to the ploughed furrow, the
frequented pasture, the lane of evening lingerings, the cultivated garden-plot.
For others the asperities, the stubborn endurance, or the clash of actual
conflict, that went with Nature in the rough; he must be wise, must keep to
the pleasant places in which his lines were laid and which held adventure
enough, in their way, to last for a lifetime.

V

DULCE DOMUM

T
HE sheep ran huddling together against the hurdles, blowing out thin
nostrils and stamping with delicate fore-feet, their heads thrown back
and a light steam rising from the crowded sheep-pen into the frosty air,
as the two animals hastened by in high spirits, with much chatter and
laughter. They were returning across country after a long day's outing with
Otter, hunting and exploring on the wide uplands, where certain streams
tributary to their own River had their first small beginnings; and the shades of
the short winter day were closing in on them, and they had still some distance
to go. Plodding at random across the plough, they had heard the sheep and
had made for them; and now, leading from the sheep-pen, they found a beaten
track that made walking a lighter business, and responded, moreover, to that
small inquiring something which all animals carry inside them, saying
unmistakably, "Yes, quite right; this leads home!"
"It looks as if we were coming to a village," said the Mole somewhat
dubiously, slackening his pace, as the track, that had in time become a path
and then had developed into a lane, now handed them over to the charge of a
well-metalled road. The animals did not hold with villages, and their own
highways, thickly frequented as they were, took an independent course,
regardless of church, post-office, or public-house.
"Oh, never mind!" said the Rat. "At this season of the year they're all safe
indoors by this time, sitting round the fire; men, women, and children, dogs
and cats and all. We shall slip through all right, without any bother or
unpleasantness, and we can have a look at them through their windows if you
like, and see what they're doing."

The rapid nightfall of mid-December had quite beset the little village as they
approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery snow. Little was
visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either side of the street, where
the firelight or lamplight of each cottage overflowed through the casements
into the dark world without. Most of the low latticed windows were innocent
of blinds, and to the lookers-in from outside, the inmates, gathered round the
tea-table, absorbed in handiwork, or talking with laughter and gesture, had
each that happy grace which is the last thing the skilled actor shall capture—
the natural grace which goes with perfect unconsciousness of observation.
Moving at will from one theatre to another, the two spectators, so far from
home themselves, had something of wistfulness in their eyes as they watched
a cat being stroked, a sleepy child picked up and huddled off to bed, or a tired
man stretch and knock out his pipe on the end of a smouldering log.
But it was from one little window, with its blind drawn down, a mere blank
transparency on the night, that the sense of home and the little curtained
world within walls—the larger stressful world of outside Nature shut out and
forgotten—most pulsated. Close against the white blind hung a bird-cage,
clearly silhouetted, every wire, perch, and appurtenance distinct and
recognisable, even to yesterday's dull-edged lump of sugar. On the middle
perch the fluffy occupant, head tucked well into feathers, seemed so near to
them as to be easily stroked, had they tried; even the delicate tips of his
plumped-out plumage pencilled plainly on the illuminated screen. As they
looked, the sleepy little fellow stirred uneasily, woke, shook himself, and
raised his head. They could see the gape of his tiny beak as he yawned in a
bored sort of way, looked round, and then settled his head into his back again,
while the ruffled feathers gradually subsided into perfect stillness. Then a
gust of bitter wind took them in the back of the neck, a small sting of frozen
sleet on the skin woke them as from a dream, and they knew their toes to be
cold and their legs tired, and their own home distant a weary way.
Once beyond the village, where the cottages ceased abruptly, on either side of
the road they could smell through the darkness the friendly fields again; and
they braced themselves for the last long stretch, the home stretch, the stretch
that we know is bound to end, some time, in the rattle of the door-latch, the
sudden firelight, and the sight of familiar things greeting us as long-absent
travellers from far over-sea. They plodded along steadily and silently, each of
them thinking his own thoughts. The Mole's ran a good deal on supper, as it
was pitch-dark, and it was all a strange country for him as far as he knew, and

he was following obediently in the wake of the Rat, leaving the guidance
entirely to him. As for the Rat, he was walking a little way ahead, as his habit
was, his shoulders humped, his eyes fixed on the straight grey road in front of
him; so he did not notice poor Mole when suddenly the summons reached
him, and took him like an electric shock.
We others, who have long lost the more subtle of the physical senses, have
not even proper terms to express an animal's inter-communications with his
surroundings, living or otherwise, and have only the word "smell," for
instance, to include the whole range of delicate thrills which murmur in the
nose of the animal night and day, summoning, warning, inciting, repelling. It
was one of these mysterious fairy calls from out the void that suddenly
reached Mole in the darkness, making him tingle through and through with
its very familiar appeal, even while yet he could not clearly remember what it
was. He stopped dead in his tracks, his nose searching hither and thither in its
efforts to recapture the fine filament, the telegraphic current, that had so
strongly moved him. A moment, and he had caught it again; and with it this
time came recollection in fullest flood.
Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those soft touches
wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one
way! Why, it must be quite close by him at that moment, his old home that he
had hurriedly forsaken and never sought again, that day when he first found
the River! And now it was sending out its scouts and its messengers to
capture him and bring him in. Since his escape on that bright morning he had
hardly given it a thought, so absorbed had he been in his new life, in all its
pleasures, its surprises, its fresh and captivating experiences. Now, with a
rush of old memories, how clearly it stood up before him, in the darkness!
Shabby indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he had
made for himself, the home he had been so happy to get back to after his
day's work. And the home had been happy with him, too, evidently, and was
missing him, and wanted him back, and was telling him so, through his nose,
sorrowfully, reproachfully, but with no bitterness or anger; only with
plaintive reminder that it was there, and wanted him.
The call was clear, the summons was plain. He must obey it instantly, and go.
"Ratty!" he called, full of joyful excitement, "hold on! Come back! I want
you, quick!"

"Oh, come along, Mole, do!" replied the Rat cheerfully, still plodding along.
"Please stop, Ratty!" pleaded the poor Mole, in anguish of heart. "You don't
understand! It's my home, my old home! I've just come across the smell of it,
and it's close by here, really quite close. And I must go to it, I must, I must!
Oh, come back, Ratty! Please, please come back!"
The Rat was by this time very far ahead, too far to hear clearly what the Mole
was calling, too far to catch the sharp note of painful appeal in his voice. And
he was much taken up with the weather, for he too, could smell something—
something suspiciously like approaching snow.
"Mole, we mustn't stop now, really!" he called back. "We'll come for it to-
morrow, whatever it is you've found. But I daren't stop now—it's late, and the
snow's coming on again, and I'm not sure of the way! And I want your nose,
Mole, so come on quick, there's a good fellow!" And the Rat pressed forward
on his way without waiting for an answer.
Poor Mole stood alone in the road, his heart torn asunder, and a big sob
gathering, gathering, somewhere low down inside him, to leap up to the
surface presently, he knew, in passionate escape. But even under such a test
as this his loyalty to his friend stood firm. Never for a moment did he dream
of abandoning him. Meanwhile, the wafts from his old home pleaded,
whispered, conjured, and finally claimed him imperiously. He dared not tarry
longer within their magic circle. With a wrench that tore his very heart-strings
he set his face down the road and followed submissively in the track of the
Rat, while faint, thin little smells, still dogging his retreating nose,
reproached him for his new friendship and his callous forgetfulness.
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 fore-court 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 field-mice 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

I
T 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 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 arm-chairs 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 light-heartedly, 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 half-way 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 market-place, 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.

Toad was a helpless prisoner in the remotest
dungeon
"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

T
HE 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 an 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 upstream. 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 mid-stream, 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 loosestrife
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 fulness 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 humorously,

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 light-hearted 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 recapture 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

W
HEN 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.

He lay prostrate in his misery on the floor
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 boat-house, 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 motor-car 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 soft-
hearted. 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

T
HE 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. To-day, however, though they
were civil enough, the field-mice and harvest mice seemed pre-occupied.
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 odour? 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 southwards, 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."
"My last voyage," began the Sea Rat, "that landed me eventually in this
country, bound with high hopes for my inland farm, will serve as a good
example of any of them, and, indeed, as an epitome of my highly-coloured
life. Family troubles, as usual, began it. The domestic storm-cone was
hoisted, and I shipped myself on board a small trading vessel bound from
Constantinople, by classic seas whose every wave throbs with a deathless
memory, to the Grecian Islands and the Levant. Those were golden days
and balmy nights! In and out of harbour all the time—old friends
everywhere—sleeping in some cool temple or ruined cistern during the heat
of the day—feasting and song after sundown, under great stars set in a
velvet sky! Thence we turned and coasted up the Adriatic, its shores
swimming in an atmosphere of amber, rose, and aquamarine; we lay in wide
landlocked harbours, we roamed through ancient and noble cities, until at
last one morning, as the sun rose royally behind us, we rode into Venice
down a path of gold. O, Venice is a fine city, wherein a rat can wander at his
ease and take his pleasure! Or, when weary of wandering, can sit at the edge
of the Grand Canal at night, feasting with his friends, when the air is full of

music and the sky full of stars, and the lights flash and shimmer on the
polished steel prows of the swaying gondolas, packed so that you could
walk across the canal on them from side to side! And then the food—do you
like shell-fish? Well, well, we won't linger over that now."
He was silent for a time; and the Water Rat, silent too and enthralled,
floated on dream-canals and heard a phantom song pealing high between
vaporous grey wave-lapped walls.
"Southwards we sailed again at last," continued the Sea Rat, "coasting down
the Italian shore, till finally we made Palermo, and there I quitted for a long,
happy spell on shore. I never stick too long to one ship; one gets narrow-
minded and prejudiced. Besides, Sicily is one of my happy hunting-
grounds. I know everybody there, and their ways just suit me. I spent many
jolly weeks in the island, staying with friends upcountry. When I grew
restless again I took advantage of a ship that was trading to Sardinia and
Corsica; and very glad I was to feel the fresh breeze and the sea-spray in my
face once more."
"But isn't it very hot and stuffy, down in the—hold, I think you call it?"
asked the Water Rat.
The seafarer looked at him with the suspicion of a wink. "I'm an old hand,"
he remarked with much simplicity. "The captain's cabin's good enough for
me."
"It's a hard life, by all accounts," murmured the Rat, sunk in deep thought.
"For the crew it is," replied the seafarer gravely, again with the ghost of a
wink.
"From Corsica," he went on, "I made use of a ship that was taking wine to
the mainland. We made Alassio in the evening, lay to, hauled up our wine-
casks, and hove them overboard, tied one to the other by a long line. Then
the crew took to the boats and rowed shorewards, singing as they went, and
drawing after them the long bobbing procession of casks, like a mile of
porpoises. On the sands they had horses waiting, which dragged the casks
up the steep street of the little town with a fine rush and clatter and
scramble. When the last cask was in, we went and refreshed and rested, and
sat late into the night, drinking with our friends, and next morning I took to

the great olive-woods for a spell and a rest. For now I had done with islands
for the time, and ports and shipping were plentiful; so I led a lazy life
among the peasants, lying and watching them work, or stretched high on the
hillside with the blue Mediterranean far below me. And so at length, by
easy stages, and partly on foot, partly by sea, to Marseilles, and the meeting
of old shipmates, and the visiting of great ocean-bound vessels, and feasting
once more. Talk of shell-fish! Why, sometimes I dream of the shell-fish of
Marseilles, and wake up crying!"

"It's a hard life, by all accounts," murmured
the Rat

"That reminds me," said the polite Water Rat; "you happened to mention
that you were hungry, and I ought to have spoken earlier. Of course, you
will stop and take your mid-day meal with me? My hole is close by; it is
some time past noon, and you are very welcome to whatever there is."
"Now I call that kind and brotherly of you," said the Sea Rat. "I was indeed
hungry when I sat down, and ever since I inadvertently happened to
mention shell-fish, my pangs have been extreme. But couldn't you fetch it
along out here? I am none too fond of going under hatches, unless I'm
obliged to; and then, while we eat, I could tell you more concerning my
voyages and the pleasant life I lead—at least, it is very pleasant to me, and
by your attention I judge it commends itself to you; whereas if we go
indoors it is a hundred to one that I shall presently fall asleep."
"That is indeed an excellent suggestion," said the Water Rat, and hurried off
home. There he got out the luncheon-basket and packed a simple meal, in
which, remembering the stranger's origin and preferences, he took care to
include a yard of long French bread, a sausage out of which the garlic sang,
some cheese which lay down and cried, and a long-necked straw-covered
flask wherein lay bottled sunshine shed and garnered on far Southern
slopes. Thus laden, he returned with all speed, and blushed for pleasure at
the old seaman's commendations of his taste and judgment, as together they
unpacked the basket and laid out the contents on the grass by the roadside.
The Sea Rat, as soon as his hunger was somewhat assuaged, continued the
history of his latest voyage, conducting his simple hearer from port to port
of Spain, landing him at Lisbon, Oporto, and Bordeaux, introducing him to
the pleasant harbours of Cornwall and Devon, and so up the Channel to that
final quayside, where, landing after winds long contrary, storm-driven and
weather-beaten, he had caught the first magical hints and heraldings of
another Spring, and, fired by these, had sped on a long tramp inland, hungry
for the experiment of life on some quiet farmstead, very far from the weary
beating of any sea.
Spellbound and quivering with excitement, the Water Rat followed the
Adventurer league by league, over stormy bays, through crowded
roadsteads, across harbour bars on a racing tide, up winding rivers that hid

their busy little towns round a sudden turn; and left him with a regretful
sigh planted at his dull inland farm, about which he desired to hear nothing.
By this time their meal was over, and the Seafarer, refreshed and
strengthened, his voice more vibrant, his eye lit with a brightness that
seemed caught from some far-away sea-beacon, filled his glass with the red
and glowing vintage of the South, and, leaning towards the Water Rat,
compelled his gaze and held him, body and soul, while he talked. Those
eyes were of the changing foam-streaked grey-green of leaping Northern
seas; in the glass shone a hot ruby that seemed the very heart of the South,
beating for him who had courage to respond to its pulsation. The twin
lights, the shifting grey and the steadfast red, mastered the Water Rat and
held him bound, fascinated, powerless. The quiet world outside their rays
receded far away and ceased to be. And the talk, the wonderful talk flowed
on—or was it speech entirely, or did it pass at times into song—chanty of
the sailors weighing the dripping anchor, sonorous hum of the shrouds in a
tearing North-Easter, ballad of the fisherman hauling his nets at sundown
against an apricot sky, chords of guitar and mandoline from gondola or
caique? Did it change into the cry of the wind, plaintive at first, angrily
shrill as it freshened, rising to a tearing whistle, sinking to a musical trickle
of air from the leech of the bellying sail? All these sounds the spellbound
listener seemed to hear, and with them the hungry complaint of the gulls
and the sea-mews, the soft thunder of the breaking wave, the cry of the
protesting shingle. Back into speech again it passed, and with beating heart
he was following the adventures of a dozen seaports, the fights, the escapes,
the rallies, the comradeships, the gallant undertakings; or he searched
islands for treasure, fished in still lagoons and dozed day-long on warm
white sand. Of deep-sea fishings he heard tell, and mighty silver gatherings
of the mile-long net; of sudden perils, noise of breakers on a moonless
night, or the tall bows of the great liner taking shape overhead through the
fog; of the merry home-coming, the headland rounded, the harbour lights
opened out; the groups seen dimly on the quay, the cheery hail, the splash
of the hawser; the trudge up the steep little street towards the comforting
glow of red-curtained windows.
Lastly, in his waking dream it seemed to him that the Adventurer had risen
to his feet, but was still speaking, still holding him fast with his sea-grey
eyes.

"And now," he was softly saying, "I take to the road again, holding on
southwestwards for many a long and dusty day; till at last I reach the little
grey sea town I know so well, that clings along one steep side of the
harbour. There through dark doorways you look down flights of stone steps,
overhung by great pink tufts of valerian and ending in a patch of sparkling
blue water. The little boats that lie tethered to the rings and stanchions of
the old sea-wall are gaily painted as those I clambered in and out of in my
own childhood; the salmon leap on the flood tide, schools of mackerel flash
and play past quay-sides and foreshores, and by the windows the great
vessels glide, night and day, up to their moorings or forth to the open sea.
There, sooner or later, the ships of all seafaring nations arrive; and there, at
its destined hour, the ship of my choice will let go its anchor. I shall take my
time, I shall tarry and bide, till at last the right one lies waiting for me,
warped out into mid-stream, loaded low, her bowsprit pointing down
harbour. I shall slip on board, by boat or along hawser; and then one
morning I shall wake to the song and tramp of the sailors, the clink of the
capstan, and the rattle of the anchor-chain coming merrily in. We shall
break out the jib and the foresail, the white houses on the harbour side will
glide slowly past us as she gathers steering-way, and the voyage will have
begun! As she forges towards the headland she will clothe herself with
canvas; and then, once outside, the sounding slap of great green seas as she
heels to the wind, pointing South!
"And you, you will come too, young brother; for the days pass, and never
return, and the South still waits for you. Take the adventure, heed the call,
now ere the irrevocable moment passes! 'Tis but a banging of the door
behind you, a blithesome step forward, and you are out of the old life and
into the new! Then some day, some day long hence, jog home here if you
will, when the cup has been drained and the play has been played, and sit
down by your quiet river with a store of goodly memories for company. You
can easily overtake me on the road, for you are young, and I am ageing and
go softly. I will linger, and look back; and at last I will surely see you
coming, eager and light-hearted, with all the South in your face!"
The voice died away and ceased as an insect's tiny trumpet dwindles swiftly
into silence; and the Water Rat, paralysed and staring, saw at last but a
distant speck on the white surface of the road.

Mechanically he rose and proceeded to repack the luncheon-basket,
carefully and without haste. Mechanically he returned home, gathered
together a few small necessaries and special treasures he was fond of, and
put them in a satchel; acting with slow deliberation, moving about the room
like a sleep-walker; listening ever with parted lips. He swung the satchel
over his shoulder, carefully selected a stout stick for his wayfaring, and with
no haste, but with no hesitation at all, he stepped across the threshold just as
the Mole appeared at the door.
"Why, where are you off to, Ratty?" asked the Mole in great surprise,
grasping him by the arm.
"Going South, with the rest of them," murmured the Rat in a dreamy
monotone, never looking at him. "Seawards first and then on shipboard, and
so to the shores that are calling me!"
He pressed resolutely forward, still without haste, but with dogged fixity of
purpose; but the Mole, now thoroughly alarmed, placed himself in front of
him, and looking into his eyes saw that they were glazed and set and turned
a streaked and shifting grey—not his friend's eyes, but the eyes of some
other animal! Grappling with him strongly he dragged him inside, threw
him down, and held him.
The Rat struggled desperately for a few moments, and then his strength
seemed suddenly to leave him, and he lay still and exhausted, with closed
eyes, trembling. Presently the Mole assisted him to rise and placed him in a
chair, where he sat collapsed and shrunken into himself, his body shaken by
a violent shivering, passing in time into an hysterical fit of dry sobbing.
Mole made the door fast, threw the satchel into a drawer and locked it, and
sat down quietly on the table by his friend, waiting for the strange seizure to
pass. Gradually the Rat sank into a troubled doze, broken by starts and
confused murmurings of things strange and wild and foreign to the
unenlightened Mole; and from that he passed into a deep slumber.
Very anxious in mind, the Mole left him for a time and busied himself with
household matters; and it was getting dark when he returned to the parlour
and found the Rat where he had left him, wide awake indeed, but listless,
silent, and dejected. He took one hasty glance at his eyes; found them, to his
great gratification, clear and dark and brown again as before; and then sat

down and tried to cheer him up and help him to relate what had happened to
him.
Poor Ratty did his best, by degrees, to explain things; but how could he put
into cold words what had mostly been suggestion? How recall, for another's
benefit, the haunting sea voices that had sung to him, how reproduce at
second-hand the magic of the Seafarer's hundred reminiscences? Even to
himself, now the spell was broken and the glamour gone, he found it
difficult to account for what had seemed, some hours ago, the inevitable and
only thing. It is not surprising, then, that he failed to convey to the Mole
any clear idea of what he had been through that day.
To the Mole this much was plain: the fit, or attack, had passed away, and
had left him sane again, though shaken and cast down by the reaction. But
he seemed to have lost all interest for the time in the things that went to
make up his daily life, as well as in all pleasant forecastings of the altered
days and doings that the changing season was surely bringing.
Casually, then, and with seeming indifference, the Mole turned his talk to
the harvest that was being gathered in, the towering wagons and their
straining teams, the growing ricks, and the large moon rising over bare
acres dotted with sheaves. He talked of the reddening apples around, of the
browning nuts, of jams and preserves and the distilling of cordials; till by
easy stages such as these he reached midwinter, its hearty joys and its snug
home life, and then he became simply lyrical.
By degrees the Rat began to sit up and to join in. His dull eye brightened,
and he lost some of his listening air.
Presently the tactful Mole slipped away and returned with a pencil and a
few half-sheets of paper, which he placed on the table at his friend's elbow.
"It's quite a long time since you did any poetry," he remarked. "You might
have a try at it this evening, instead of—well, brooding over things so
much. I've an idea that you'll feel a lot better when you've got something
jotted down—if it's only just the rhymes."
The Rat pushed the paper away from him wearily, but the discreet Mole
took occasion to leave the room, and when he peeped in again some time
later, the Rat was absorbed and deaf to the world; alternately scribbling and

sucking the top of his pencil. It is true that he sucked a good deal more than
he scribbled; but it was joy to the Mole to know that the cure had at least
begun.

X

THE FURTHER
ADVENTURES
OF TOAD

T
HE front door of the hollow tree faced eastwards, so Toad was called
at an early hour; partly by the bright sunlight streaming in on him,
partly by the exceeding coldness of his toes, which made him dream
that he was at home in bed in his own handsome room with the Tudor
window, on a cold winter's night, and his bed-clothes had got up, grumbling
and protesting they couldn't stand the cold any longer, and had run
downstairs to the kitchen fire to warm themselves; and he had followed, on
bare feet, along miles and miles of icy stone-paved passages, arguing and
beseeching them to be reasonable. He would probably have been aroused
much earlier, had he not slept for some weeks on straw over stone flags, and
almost forgotten the friendly feeling of thick blankets pulled well up round
the chin.
Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes first and his complaining toes next, wondered
for a moment where he was, looking round for familiar stone wall and little
barred window; then, with a leap of the heart, remembered everything—his
escape, his flight, his pursuit; remembered, first and best thing of all, that he
was free!
Free! The word and the thought alone were worth fifty blankets. He was
warm from end to end as he thought of the jolly world outside, waiting
eagerly for him to make his triumphal entrance, ready to serve him and play
up to him, anxious to help him and to keep him company, as it always had

been in days of old before misfortune fell upon him. He shook himself and
combed the dry leaves out of his hair with his fingers; and, his toilet
complete, marched forth into the comfortable morning sun, cold but
confident, hungry but hopeful, all nervous terrors of yesterday dispelled by
rest and sleep and frank and heartening sunshine.
He had the world all to himself, that early summer morning. The dewy
woodland, as he threaded it, was solitary and still: the green fields that
succeeded the trees were his own to do as he liked with; the road itself,
when he reached it, in that loneliness that was everywhere, seemed, like a
stray dog, to be looking anxiously for company. Toad, however, was
looking for something that could talk, and tell him clearly which way he
ought to go. It is all very well, when you have a light heart, and a clear
conscience, and money in your pocket, and nobody scouring the country for
you to drag you off to prison again, to follow where the road beckons and
points, not caring whither. The practical Toad cared very much indeed, and
he could have kicked the road for its helpless silence when every minute
was of importance to him.
The reserved rustic road was presently joined by a shy little brother in the
shape of a canal, which took its hand and ambled along by its side in perfect
confidence, but with the same tongue-tied, uncommunicative attitude
towards strangers. "Bother them!" said Toad to himself. "But, anyhow, one
thing's clear. They must both be coming from somewhere, and going to
somewhere. You can't get over that, Toad, my boy!" So he marched on
patiently by the water's edge.
Round a bend in the canal came plodding a solitary horse, stooping forward
as if in anxious thought. From rope traces attached to his collar stretched a
long line, taut, but dipping with his stride, the further part of it dripping
pearly drops. Toad let the horse pass, and stood waiting for what the fates
were sending him.
With a pleasant swirl of quiet water at its blunt bow the barge slid up
alongside of him, its gaily painted gunwale level with the towing-path, its
sole occupant a big stout woman wearing a linen sun-bonnet, one brawny
arm laid along the tiller.

"A nice morning, ma'am!" she remarked to Toad, as she drew up level with
him.
"I dare say it is, ma'am!" responded Toad politely, as he walked along the
tow-path abreast of her. "I dare say it is a nice morning to them that's not in
sore trouble, like what I am. Here's my married daughter, she sends off to
me post-haste to come to her at once; so off I comes, not knowing what may
be happening or going to happen, but fearing the worst, as you will
understand, ma'am, if you're a mother, too. And I've left my business to look
after itself—I'm in the washing and laundering line, you must know, ma'am
—and I've left my young children to look after themselves, and a more
mischievous and troublesome set of young imps doesn't exist, ma'am; and
I've lost all my money, and lost my way, and as for what may be happening
to my married daughter, why, I don't like to think of it, ma'am!"
"Where might your married daughter be living, ma'am?" asked the barge-
woman.
"She lives near to the river, ma'am," replied Toad. "Close to a fine house
called Toad Hall, that's somewheres hereabouts in these parts. Perhaps you
may have heard of it."
"Toad Hall? Why, I'm going that way myself," replied the barge-woman.
"This canal joins the river some miles further on, a little above Toad Hall;
and then it's an easy walk. You come along in the barge with me, and I'll
give you a lift."
She steered the barge close to the bank, and Toad, with many humble and
grateful acknowledgments, stepped lightly on board and sat down with
great satisfaction. "Toad's luck again!" thought he. "I always come out on
top!"
"So you're in the washing business, ma'am?" said the barge-woman politely,
as they glided along. "And a very good business you've got too, I dare say,
if I'm not making too free in saying so."
"Finest business in the whole country," said Toad airily. "All the gentry
come to me—wouldn't go to any one else if they were paid, they know me
so well. You see, I understand my work thoroughly, and attend to it all

myself. Washing, ironing, clear-starching, making up gents' fine shirts for
evening wear—everything's done under my own eye!"
"But surely you don't do all that work yourself, ma'am?" asked the barge-
woman respectfully.
"O, I have girls," said Toad lightly: "twenty girls or thereabouts, always at
work. But you know what girls are, ma'am! Nasty little hussies, that's what
I call 'em!"
"So do I, too," said the barge-woman with great heartiness. "But I dare say
you set yours to rights, the idle trollops! And are you very fond of
washing?"
"I love it," said Toad. "I simply dote on it. Never so happy as when I've got
both arms in the wash-tub. But, then, it comes so easy to me! No trouble at
all! A real pleasure, I assure you, ma'am!"
"What a bit of luck, meeting you!" observed the barge-woman, thoughtfully.
"A regular piece of good fortune for both of us!"
"Why, what do you mean?" asked Toad, nervously.
"Well, look at me, now," replied the barge-woman. "I like washing, too, just
the same as you do; and for that matter, whether I like it or not I have got to
do all my own, naturally, moving about as I do. Now my husband, he's such
a fellow for shirking his work and leaving the barge to me, that never a
moment do I get for seeing to my own affairs. By rights he ought to be here
now, either steering or attending to the horse, though luckily the horse has
sense enough to attend to himself. Instead of which, he's gone off with the
dog, to see if they can't pick up a rabbit for dinner somewhere. Says he'll
catch me up at the next lock. Well, that's as may be—I don't trust him, once
he gets off with that dog, who's worse than he is. But meantime, how am I
to get on with my washing?"
"O, never mind about the washing," said Toad, not liking the subject. "Try
and fix your mind on that rabbit. A nice fat young rabbit, I'll be bound. Got
any onions?"

"I can't fix my mind on anything but my washing," said the barge-woman,
"and I wonder you can be talking of rabbits, with such a joyful prospect
before you. There's a heap of things of mine that you'll find in a corner of
the cabin. If you'll just take one or two of the most necessary sort—I won't
venture to describe them to a lady like you, but you'll recognise them at a
glance—and put them through the wash-tub as we go along, why, it'll be a
pleasure to you, as you rightly say, and a real help to me. You'll find a tub
handy, and soap, and a kettle on the stove, and a bucket to haul up water
from the canal with. Then I shall know you're enjoying yourself, instead of
sitting here idle, looking at the scenery and yawning your head off."
"Here, you let me steer!" said Toad, now thoroughly frightened, "and then
you can get on with your washing your own way. I might spoil your things,
or not do 'em as you like. I'm more used to gentleman's things myself. It's
my special line."
"Let you steer?" replied the barge-woman, laughing. "It takes some practice
to steer a barge properly. Besides, it's dull work, and I want you to be
happy. No, you shall do the washing you are so fond of, and I'll stick to the
steering that I understand. Don't try and deprive me of the pleasure of
giving you a treat!"
Toad was fairly cornered. He looked for escape this way and that, saw that
he was too far from the bank for a flying leap, and sullenly resigned himself
to his fate. "If it comes to that," he thought in desperation, "I suppose any
fool can wash!"
He fetched tub, soap, and other necessaries from the cabin, selected a few
garments at random, tried to recollect what he had seen in casual glances
through laundry windows, and set to.
A long half-hour passed, and every minute of it saw Toad getting crosser
and crosser. Nothing that he could do to the things seemed to please them or
do them good. He tried coaxing, he tried slapping, he tried punching; they
smiled back at him out of the tub unconverted, happy in their original sin.
Once or twice he looked nervously over his shoulder at the barge-woman,
but she appeared to be gazing out in front of her, absorbed in her steering.
His back ached badly, and he noticed with dismay that his paws were
beginning to get all crinkly. Now Toad was very proud of his paws. He

muttered under his breath words that should never pass the lips of either
washerwomen or Toads; and lost the soap, for the fiftieth time.
A burst of laughter made him straighten himself and look round. The barge-
woman was leaning back and laughing unrestrainedly, till the tears ran
down her cheeks.
"I've been watching you all the time," she gasped. "I thought you must be a
humbug all along, from the conceited way you talked. Pretty washerwoman
you are! Never washed so much as a dish-clout in your life, I'll lay!"
Toad's temper, which had been simmering viciously for some time, now
fairly boiled over, and he lost all control of himself.
"You common, low, fat barge-woman!" he shouted; "don't you dare to talk
to your betters like that! Washerwoman indeed! I would have you to know
that I am a Toad, a very well-known, respected, distinguished Toad! I may
be under a bit of a cloud at present, but I will not be laughed at by a barge-
woman!"
The woman moved nearer to him and peered under his bonnet keenly and
closely. "Why, so you are!" she cried. "Well, I never! A horrid, nasty, crawly
Toad! And in my nice clean barge, too! Now that is a thing that I will not
have."
She relinquished the tiller for a moment. One big, mottled arm shot out and
caught Toad by a fore-leg, while the other gripped him fast by a hind-leg.
Then the world turned suddenly upside down, the barge seemed to flit
lightly across the sky, the wind whistled in his ears, and Toad found himself
flying through the air, revolving rapidly as he went.
The water, when he eventually reached it with a loud splash, proved quite
cold enough for his taste, though its chill was not sufficient to quell his
proud spirit, or slake the heat of his furious temper. He rose to the surface
spluttering, and when he had wiped the duck-weed out of his eyes the first
thing he saw was the fat barge-woman looking back at him over the stern of
the retreating barge and laughing; and he vowed, as he coughed and choked,
to be even with her.

He struck out for the shore, but the cotton gown greatly impeded his efforts,
and when at length he touched land he found it hard to climb up the steep
bank unassisted. He had to take a minute or two's rest to recover his breath;
then, gathering his wet skirts well over his arms, he started to run after the
barge as fast as his legs would carry him, wild with indignation, thirsting
for revenge.
The barge-woman was still laughing when he drew up level with her. "Put
yourself through your mangle, washerwoman," she called out, "and iron
your face and crimp it, and you'll pass for quite a decent-looking Toad!"
Toad never paused to reply. Solid revenge was what he wanted, not cheap,
windy, verbal triumphs, though he had a thing or two in his mind that he
would have liked to say. He saw what he wanted ahead of him. Running
swiftly on he overtook the horse, unfastened the tow-rope and cast off,
jumped lightly on the horse's back, and urged it to a gallop by kicking it
vigorously in the sides. He steered for the open country, abandoning the
tow-path, and swinging his steed down a rutty lane. Once he looked back,
and saw that the barge had run aground on the other side of the canal, and
the barge-woman was gesticulating wildly and shouting, "Stop, stop, stop!"
"I've heard that song before," said Toad, laughing, as he continued to spur
his steed onward in its wild career.
The barge-horse was not capable of any very sustained effort, and its gallop
soon subsided into a trot, and its trot into an easy walk; but Toad was quite
contented with this, knowing that he, at any rate, was moving, and the barge
was not. He had quite recovered his temper, now that he had done
something he thought really clever; and he was satisfied to jog along quietly
in the sun, steering his horse along by-ways and bridle-paths, and trying to
forget how very long it was since he had had a square meal, till the canal
had been left very far behind him.
He had travelled some miles, his horse and he, and he was feeling drowsy
in the hot sunshine, when the horse stopped, lowered his head, and began to
nibble the grass; and Toad, waking up, just saved himself from falling off
by an effort. He looked about him and found he was on a wide common,
dotted with patches of gorse and bramble as far as he could see. Near him
stood a dingy gipsy caravan, and beside it a man was sitting on a bucket

turned upside down, very busy smoking and staring into the wide world. A
fire of sticks was burning near by, and over the fire hung an iron pot, and
out of that pot came forth bubblings and gurglings, and a vague suggestive
steaminess. Also smells—warm, rich, and varied smells—that twined and
twisted and wreathed themselves at last into one complete, voluptuous,
perfect smell that seemed like the very soul of Nature taking form and
appearing to her children, a true Goddess, a mother of solace and comfort.
Toad now knew well that he had not been really hungry before. What he
had felt earlier in the day had been a mere trifling qualm. This was the real
thing at last, and no mistake; and it would have to be dealt with speedily,
too, or there would be trouble for somebody or something. He looked the
gipsy over carefully, wondering vaguely whether it would be easier to fight
him or cajole him. So there he sat, and sniffed and sniffed, and looked at the
gipsy; and the gipsy sat and smoked, and looked at him.
Presently the gipsy took his pipe out of his mouth and remarked in a
careless way, "Want to sell that there horse of yours?"
Toad was completely taken aback. He did not know that gipsies were very
fond of horse-dealing, and never missed an opportunity, and he had not
reflected that caravans were always on the move and took a deal of
drawing. It had not occurred to him to turn the horse into cash, but the
gipsy's suggestion seemed to smooth the way towards the two things he
wanted so badly—ready money, and a solid breakfast.
"What?" he said, "me sell this beautiful young horse of mine? O, no; it's out
of the question. Who's going to take the washing home to my customers
every week? Besides, I'm too fond of him, and he simply dotes on me."
"Try and love a donkey," suggested the gipsy. "Some people do."
"You don't seem to see," continued Toad, "that this fine horse of mine is a
cut above you altogether. He's a blood horse, he is, partly; not the part you
see, of course—another part. And he's been a Prize Hackney, too, in his
time—that was the time before you knew him, but you can still tell it on
him at a glance, if you understand anything about horses. No, it's not to be
thought of for a moment. All the same, how much might you be disposed to
offer me for this beautiful young horse of mine?"

The gipsy looked the horse over, and then he looked Toad over with equal
care, and looked at the horse again. "Shillin' a leg," he said briefly, and
turned away, continuing to smoke and try to stare the wide world out of
countenance.
"A shilling a leg?" cried Toad. "If you please, I must take a little time to
work that out, and see just what it comes to."
He climbed down off his horse, and left it to graze, and sat down by the
gipsy, and did sums on his fingers, and at last he said, "A shilling a leg?
Why, that comes to exactly four shillings, and no more. O, no; I could not
think of accepting four shillings for this beautiful young horse of mine."
"Well," said the gipsy, "I'll tell you what I will do. I'll make it five shillings,
and that's three-and-sixpence more than the animal's worth. And that's my
last word."
Then Toad sat and pondered long and deeply. For he was hungry and quite
penniless, and still some way—he knew not how far—from home, and
enemies might still be looking for him. To one in such a situation, five
shillings may very well appear a large sum of money. On the other hand, it
did not seem very much to get for a horse. But then, again, the horse hadn't
cost him anything; so whatever he got was all clear profit. At last he said
firmly, "Look here, gipsy! I tell you what we will do; and this is my last
word. You shall hand me over six shillings and sixpence, cash down; and
further, in addition thereto, you shall give me as much breakfast as I can
possibly eat, at one sitting of course, out of that iron pot of yours that keeps
sending forth such delicious and exciting smells. In return, I will make over
to you my spirited young horse, with all the beautiful harness and trappings
that are on him, freely thrown in. If that's not good enough for you, say so,
and I'll be getting on. I know a man near here who's wanted this horse of
mine for years."
The gipsy grumbled frightfully, and declared if he did a few more deals of
that sort he'd be ruined. But in the end he lugged a dirty canvas bag out of
the depths of his trouser pocket, and counted out six shillings and sixpence
into Toad's paw. Then he disappeared into the caravan for an instant, and
returned with a large iron plate and a knife, fork, and spoon. He tilted up the
pot, and a glorious stream of hot, rich stew gurgled into the plate. It was,

indeed, the most beautiful stew in the world, being made of partridges, and
pheasants, and chickens, and hares, and rabbits, and peahens, and guinea-
fowls, and one or two other things. Toad took the plate on his lap, almost
crying, and stuffed, and stuffed, and stuffed, and kept asking for more, and
the gipsy never grudged it him. He thought that he had never eaten so good
a breakfast in all his life.
When Toad had taken as much stew on board as he thought he could
possibly hold, he got up and said good-bye to the gipsy, and took an
affectionate farewell of the horse; and the gipsy, who knew the riverside
well, gave him directions which way to go, and he set forth on his travels
again in the best possible spirits. He was, indeed, a very different Toad from
the animal of an hour ago. The sun was shining brightly, his wet clothes
were quite dry again, he had money in his pocket once more, he was
nearing home and friends and safety, and, most and best of all, he had had a
substantial meal, hot and nourishing, and felt big, and strong, and careless,
and self-confident.
As he tramped along gaily, he thought of his adventures and escapes, and
how when things seemed at their worst he had always managed to find a
way out; and his pride and conceit began to swell within him. "Ho, ho!" he
said to himself, as he marched along with his chin in the air, "what a clever
Toad I am! There is surely no animal equal to me for cleverness in the
whole world! My enemies shut me up in prison, encircled by sentries,
watched night and day by warders; I walk out through them all, by sheer
ability coupled with courage. They pursue me with engines, and policemen,
and revolvers; I snap my fingers at them, and vanish, laughing, into space. I
am, unfortunately, thrown into a canal by a woman fat of body and very
evil-minded. What of it? I swim ashore, I seize her horse, I ride off in
triumph, and I sell the horse for a whole pocketful of money and an
excellent breakfast! Ho, ho! I am The Toad, the handsome, the popular, the
successful Toad!" He got so puffed up with conceit that he made up a song
as he walked in praise of himself, and sang it at the top of his voice, though
there was no one to hear it but him. It was, perhaps, the most conceited
song that any animal ever composed.

"The world has held great Heroes,
As history-books have showed;
But never a name to go down to fame
Compared with that of Toad!

"The clever men at Oxford
Know all that there is to be knowed.
But they none of them know one half as much
As intelligent Mr. Toad!

"The animals sat in the Ark and cried,
Their tears in torrents flowed.
Who was it said, 'There's land ahead?'
Encouraging Mr. Toad!

"The army all saluted
As they marched along the road.
Was it the King? Or Kitchener?
No. It was Mr. Toad.

"The Queen and her Ladies-in-waiting
Sat at the window and sewed.
She cried, 'Look! who's that handsome man?'
They answered, 'Mr. Toad.'"

There was a great deal more of the same sort, but too dreadfully conceited to be written down.
These are some of the milder verses.
He sang as he walked, and he walked as he sang, and got more inflated every minute. But his pride
was shortly to have a severe fall.
After some miles of country lanes he reached the high road, and as he turned into it and glanced
along its white length, he saw approaching him a speck that turned into a dot and then into a blob,
and then into something very familiar; and a double note of warning, only too well known, fell on
his delighted ear.
"This is something like!" said the excited Toad. "This is real life again, this is once more the great
world from which I have been missed so long! I will hail them, my brothers of the wheel, and pitch
them a yarn, of the sort that has been so successful hitherto; and they will give me a lift, of course,
and then I will talk to them some more; and, perhaps, with luck, it may even end in my driving up
to Toad Hall in a motor-car! That will be one in the eye for Badger!"
He stepped confidently out into the road to hail the motor-car, which came along at an easy pace,
slowing down as it neared the lane; when suddenly he became very pale, his heart turned to water,
his knees shook and yielded under him, and he doubled up and collapsed with a sickening pain in
his interior. And well he might, the unhappy animal; for the approaching car was the very one he
had stolen out of the yard of the Red Lion Hotel on that fatal day when all his troubles began! And
the people in it were the very same people he had sat and watched at luncheon in the coffee-room!

He sank down in a shabby, miserable heap in the road, murmuring to himself in his despair, "It's all
up! It's all over now! Chains and policemen again! Prison again! Dry bread and water again! O,
what a fool I have been! What did I want to go strutting about the country for, singing conceited
songs, and hailing people in broad day on the high road, instead of hiding till nightfall and slipping
home quietly by back ways! O hapless Toad! O ill-fated animal!"
The terrible motor-car drew slowly nearer and nearer, till at last he heard it stop just short of him.
Two gentlemen got out and walked round the trembling heap of crumpled misery lying in the road,
and one of them said, "O dear! this is very sad! Here is a poor old thing—a washerwoman
apparently—who has fainted in the road! Perhaps she is overcome by the heat, poor creature; or
possibly she has not had any food to-day. Let us lift her into the car and take her to the nearest
village, where doubtless she has friends."
They tenderly lifted Toad into the motor-car and propped him up with soft cushions, and
proceeded on their way.
When Toad heard them talk in so kind and sympathetic a way, and knew that he was not
recognised, his courage began to revive, and he cautiously opened first one eye and then the other.
"Look!" said one of the gentlemen, "she is better already. The fresh air is doing her good. How do
you feel now, ma'am?"
"Thank you kindly, sir," said Toad in a feeble voice, "I'm feeling a great deal better!" "That's
right," said the gentleman. "Now keep quite still, and, above all, don't try to talk."
"I won't," said Toad. "I was only thinking, if I might sit on the front seat there, beside the driver,
where I could get the fresh air full in my face, I should soon be all right again."
"What a very sensible woman!" said the gentleman. "Of course you shall." So they carefully
helped Toad into the front seat beside the driver, and on they went again.
Toad was almost himself again by now. He sat up, looked about him, and tried to beat down the
tremors, the yearnings, the old cravings that rose up and beset him and took possession of him
entirely.
"It is fate!" he said to himself. "Why strive? why struggle?" and he turned to the driver at his side.
"Please, Sir," he said, "I wish you would kindly let me try and drive the car for a little. I've been
watching you carefully, and it looks so easy and so interesting, and I should like to be able to tell
my friends that once I had driven a motor-car!"
The driver laughed at the proposal, so heartily that the gentleman inquired what the matter was.
When he heard, he said, to Toad's delight, "Bravo, ma'am! I like your spirit. Let her have a try, and
look after her. She won't do any harm."
Toad eagerly scrambled into the seat vacated by the driver, took the steering-wheel in his hands,
listened with affected humility to the instructions given him, and set the car in motion, but very
slowly and carefully at first, for he was determined to be prudent.
The gentlemen behind clapped their hands and applauded, and Toad heard them saying, "How well
she does it! Fancy a washerwoman driving a car as well as that, the first time!"
Toad went a little faster; then faster still, and faster.

He heard the gentlemen call out warningly, "Be careful, washerwoman!" And this annoyed him,
and he began to lose his head.
The driver tried to interfere, but he pinned him down in his seat with one elbow, and put on full
speed. The rush of air in his face, the hum of the engines, and the light jump of the car beneath him
intoxicated his weak brain. "Washerwoman, indeed!" he shouted recklessly. "Ho! ho! I am the
Toad, the motor-car snatcher, the prison-breaker, the Toad who always escapes! Sit still, and you
shall know what driving really is, for you are in the hands of the famous, the skilful, the entirely
fearless Toad!"
With a cry of horror the whole party rose and flung themselves on him. "Seize him!" they cried,
"seize the Toad, the wicked animal who stole our motor-car! Bind him, chain him, drag him to the
nearest police station! Down with the desperate and dangerous Toad!"
Alas! they should have thought, they ought to have been more prudent, they should have
remembered to stop the motor-car somehow before playing any pranks of that sort. With a half-
turn of the wheel the Toad sent the car crashing through the low hedge that ran along the roadside.
One mighty bound, a violent shock, and the wheels of the car were churning up the thick mud of a
horse-pond.
Toad found himself flying through the air with the strong upward rush and delicate curve of a
swallow. He liked the motion, and was just beginning to wonder whether it would go on until he
developed wings and turned into a Toad-bird, when he landed on his back with a thump, in the
soft, rich grass of a meadow. Sitting up, he could just see the motor-car in the pond, nearly
submerged; the gentlemen and the driver, encumbered by their long coats, were floundering
helplessly in the water.
He picked himself up rapidly, and set off running across country as hard as he could, scrambling
through hedges, jumping ditches, pounding across fields, till he was breathless and weary, and had
to settle down into an easy walk. When he had recovered his breath somewhat, and was able to
think calmly, he began to giggle, and from giggling he took to laughing, and he laughed till he had
to sit down under a hedge. "Ho! ho!" he cried, in ecstasies of self-admiration. "Toad again! Toad,
as usual, comes out on the top! Who was it got them to give him a lift? Who managed to get on the
front seat for the sake of fresh air? Who persuaded them into letting him see if he could drive?
Who landed them all in a horse-pond? Who escaped, flying gaily and unscathed through the air,
leaving the narrow-minded, grudging, timid excursionists in the mud where they should rightly
be? Why, Toad, of course; clever Toad, great Toad, good Toad!"
Then he burst into song again, and chanted with uplifted voice—

"The motor-car went Poop-poop-poop,
As it raced along the road.
Who was it steered it into a pond?
Ingenious Mr. Toad!

O, how clever I am! How clever, how clever, how very clev—"
A slight noise at a distance behind him made him turn his head and look. O horror! O misery! O
despair!

About two fields off, a chauffeur in his leather gaiters and two large rural policemen were visible,
running towards him as hard as they could go!
Poor Toad sprang to his feet and pelted away again, his heart in his mouth. "O, my!" he gasped, as
he panted along, "what an ass I am! What a conceited and heedless ass! Swaggering again!
Shouting and singing songs again! Sitting still and gassing again! O my! O my! O my!"
He glanced back, and saw to his dismay that they were gaining on him. On he ran desperately, but
kept looking back, and saw that they still gained steadily. He did his best, but he was a fat animal,
and his legs were short, and still they gained. He could hear them close behind him now. Ceasing
to heed where he was going, he struggled on blindly and wildly, looking back over his shoulder at
the now triumphant enemy, when suddenly the earth failed under his feet, he grasped at the air,
and, splash! he found himself head over ears in deep water, rapid water, water that bore him along
with a force he could not contend with; and he knew that in his blind panic he had run straight into
the river!
He rose to the surface and tried to grasp the reeds and the rushes that grew along the water's edge
close under the bank, but the stream was so strong that it tore them out of his hands. "O my!"
gasped poor Toad, "if ever I steal a motor-car again! If ever I sing another conceited song"—then
down he went, and came up breathless and spluttering. Presently he saw that he was approaching a
big dark hole in the bank, just above his head, and as the stream bore him past he reached up with
a paw and caught hold of the edge and held on. Then slowly and with difficulty he drew himself up
out of the water, till at last he was able to rest his elbows on the edge of the hole. There he
remained for some minutes, puffing and panting, for he was quite exhausted.
As he sighed and blew and stared before him into the dark hole, some bright small thing shone and
twinkled in its depths, moving towards him. As it approached, a face grew up gradually around it,
and it was a familiar face!
Brown and small, with whiskers.
Grave and round, with neat ears and silky hair.
It was the Water Rat!

XI

"LIKE SUMMER
TEMPESTS CAME
HIS TEARS"

T
HE Rat put out a neat little brown paw, gripped Toad firmly by the scruff of the neck, and
gave a great hoist and a pull; and the water-logged Toad came up slowly but surely over the
edge of the hole, till at last he stood safe and sound in the hall, streaked with mud and weed,
to be sure, and with the water streaming off him, but happy and high-spirited as of old, now that he
found himself once more in the house of a friend, and dodgings and evasions were over, and he
could lay aside a disguise that was unworthy of his position and wanted such a lot of living up to.
"O, Ratty!" he cried. "I've been through such times since I saw you last, you can't think! Such
trials, such sufferings, and all so nobly borne! Then such escapes, such disguises, such subterfuges,
and all so cleverly planned and carried out! Been in prison—got out of it, of course! Been thrown
into a canal—swam ashore! Stole a horse—sold him for a large sum of money! Humbugged
everybody—made 'em all do exactly what I wanted! Oh, I am a smart Toad, and no mistake! What
do you think my last exploit was? Just hold on till I tell you—"
"Toad," said the Water Rat, gravely and firmly, "you go off upstairs at once, and take off that old
cotton rag that looks as if it might formerly have belonged to some washerwoman, and clean
yourself thoroughly, and put on some of my clothes, and try and come down looking like a
gentleman if you can; for a more shabby, bedraggled, disreputable-looking object than you are I
never set eyes on in my whole life! Now, stop swaggering and arguing, and be off! I'll have
something to say to you later!"
Toad was at first inclined to stop and do some talking back at him. He had had enough of being
ordered about when he was in prison, and here was the thing being begun all over again,
apparently; and by a Rat, too! However, he caught sight of himself in the looking-glass over the
hat-stand, with the rusty black bonnet perched rakishly over one eye, and he changed his mind and
went very quickly and humbly upstairs to the Rat's dressing-room. There he had a thorough wash
and brush-up, changed his clothes, and stood for a long time before the glass, contemplating
himself with pride and pleasure, and thinking what utter idiots all the people must have been to
have ever mistaken him for one moment for a washerwoman.
By the time he came down again luncheon was on the table, and very glad Toad was to see it, for
he had been through some trying experiences and had taken much hard exercise since the excellent
breakfast provided for him by the gipsy. While they ate Toad told the Rat all his adventures,
dwelling chiefly on his own cleverness, and presence of mind in emergencies, and cunning in tight

places; and rather making out that he had been having a gay and highly-coloured experience. But
the more he talked and boasted, the more grave and silent the Rat became.
When at last Toad had talked himself to a standstill, there was silence for a while; and then the Rat
said, "Now, Toady, I don't want to give you pain, after all you've been through already; but,
seriously, don't you see what an awful ass you've been making of yourself? On your own
admission you have been hand-cuffed, imprisoned, starved, chased, terrified out of your life,
insulted, jeered at, and ignominiously flung into the water—by a woman, too! Where's the
amusement in that? Where does the fun come in? And all because you must needs go and steal a
motor-car. You know that you've never had anything but trouble from motor-cars from the moment
you first set eyes on one. But if you will be mixed up with them—as you generally are, five
minutes after you've started—why steal them? Be a cripple, if you think it's exciting; be a
bankrupt, for a change, if you've set your mind on it: but why choose to be a convict? When are
you going to be sensible and think of your friends, and try and be a credit to them? Do you
suppose it's any pleasure to me, for instance, to hear animals saying, as I go about, that I'm the
chap that keeps company with gaol-birds?"

Dwelling chiefly on his own cleverness, and
presence of mind in emergencies
Now, it was a very comforting point in Toad's character that he was a thoroughly good-hearted
animal, and never minded being jawed by those who were his real friends. And even when most
set upon a thing, he was always able to see the other side of the question. So although, while the
Rat was talking so seriously, he kept saying to himself mutinously, "But it was fun, though! Awful

fun!" and making strange suppressed noises inside him, k-i-ck-ck-ck, and poop-p-p, and other
sounds resembling stifled snorts, or the opening of soda-water bottles, yet when the Rat had quite
finished, he heaved a deep sigh and said, very nicely and humbly, "Quite right, Ratty! How sound
you always are! Yes, I've been a conceited old ass, I can quite see that; but now I'm going to be a
good Toad, and not do it any more. As for motor-cars, I've not been at all so keen about them since
my last ducking in that river of yours. The fact is, while I was hanging on to the edge of your hole
and getting my breath, I had a sudden idea—a really brilliant idea—connected with motor-boats—
there, there! don't take on so, old chap, and stamp, and upset things; it was only an idea, and we
won't talk any more about it now. We'll have our coffee, and a smoke, and a quiet chat, and then
I'm going to stroll quietly down to Toad Hall, and get into clothes of my own, and set things going
again on the old lines. I've had enough of adventures. I shall lead a quiet, steady, respectable life,
pottering about my property, and improving it, and doing a little landscape gardening at times.
There will always be a bit of dinner for my friends when they come to see me; and I shall keep a
pony-chaise to jog about the country in, just as I used to in the good old days, before I got restless,
and wanted to do things."
"Stroll quietly down to Toad Hall?" cried the Rat, greatly excited. "What are you talking about? Do
you mean to say you haven't heard?"
"Heard what?" said Toad, turning rather pale. "Go on, Ratty! Quick! Don't spare me! What haven't
I heard?"
"Do you mean to tell me," shouted the Rat, thumping with his little fist upon the table, "that you've
heard nothing about the Stoats and Weasels?"
"What, the Wild Wooders?" cried Toad, trembling in every limb. "No, not a word! What have they
been doing?"
"—And how they've been and taken Toad Hall?" continued the Rat.
Toad leaned his elbows on the table, and his chin on his paws; and a large tear welled up in each of
his eyes, overflowed and splashed on the table, plop! plop!
"Go on, Ratty," he murmured presently; "tell me all. The worst is over. I am an animal again. I can
bear it."
"When you—got—into that—that—trouble of yours," said the Rat, slowly and impressively; "I
mean, when you—disappeared from society for a time, over that misunderstanding about a—a
machine, you know—"
Toad merely nodded.
"Well, it was a good deal talked about down here, naturally," continued the Rat, "not only along
the riverside, but even in the Wild Wood. Animals took sides, as always happens. The River-
bankers stuck up for you, and said you had been infamously treated, and there was no justice to be
had in the land nowadays. But the Wild Wood animals said hard things, and served you right, and
it was time this sort of thing was stopped. And they got very cocky, and went about saying you
were done for this time! You would never come back again, never, never!"
Toad nodded once more, keeping silence.

"That's the sort of little beasts they are," the Rat went on. "But Mole and Badger, they stuck out,
through thick and thin, that you would come back again soon, somehow. They didn't know exactly
how, but somehow!"
Toad began to sit up in his chair again, and to smirk a little.
"They argued from history," continued the Rat. "They said that no criminal laws had ever been
known to prevail against cheek and plausibility such as yours, combined with the power of a long
purse. So they arranged to move their things in to Toad Hall, and sleep there, and keep it aired, and
have it all ready for you when you turned up. They didn't guess what was going to happen, of
course; still, they had their suspicions of the Wild Wood animals. Now I come to the most painful
and tragic part of my story. One dark night—it was a very dark night, and blowing hard, too, and
raining simply cats and dogs—a band of weasels, armed to the teeth, crept silently up the carriage-
drive to the front entrance. Simultaneously, a body of desperate ferrets, advancing through the
kitchen-garden, possessed themselves of the backyard and offices; while a company of skirmishing
stoats who stuck at nothing occupied the conservatory and the billiard-room, and held the French
windows opening on to the lawn.
"The Mole and the Badger were sitting by the fire in the smoking-room, telling stories and
suspecting nothing, for it wasn't a night for any animals to be out in, when those bloodthirsty
villains broke down the doors and rushed in upon them from every side. They made the best fight
they could, but what was the good? They were unarmed, and taken by surprise, and what can two
animals do against hundreds? They took and beat them severely with sticks, those two poor
faithful creatures, and turned them out into the cold and the wet, with many insulting and uncalled-
for remarks!"
Here the unfeeling Toad broke into a snigger, and then pulled himself together and tried to look
particularly solemn.
"And the Wild Wooders have been living in Toad Hall ever since," continued the Rat; "and going
on simply anyhow! Lying in bed half the day, and breakfast at all hours, and the place in such a
mess (I'm told) it's not fit to be seen! Eating your grub, and drinking your drink, and making bad
jokes about you, and singing vulgar songs, about—well, about prisons and magistrates, and
policemen; horrid personal songs, with no humour in them. And they're telling the tradespeople
and everybody that they've come to stay for good."
"O, have they!" said Toad, getting up and seizing a stick. "I'll jolly soon see about that!"
"It's no good, Toad!" called the Rat after him. "You'd better come back and sit down; you'll only
get into trouble."
But the Toad was off, and there was no holding him. He marched rapidly down the road, his stick
over his shoulder, fuming and muttering to himself in his anger, till he got near his front gate,
when suddenly there popped up from behind the palings a long yellow ferret with a gun.
"Who comes there?" said the ferret sharply.
"Stuff and nonsense!" said Toad, very angrily. "What do you mean by talking like that to me?
Come out of that at once or I'll—"
The ferret said never a word, but he brought his gun up to his shoulder. Toad prudently dropped
flat in the road, and Bang! a bullet whistled over his head.

The startled Toad scrambled to his feet and scampered off down the road as hard as he could; and
as he ran he heard the ferret laughing and other horrid thin little laughs taking it up and carrying on
the sound.
He went back, very crestfallen, and told the Water Rat.
"What did I tell you?" said the Rat. "It's no good. They've got sentries posted, and they are all
armed. You must just wait."
Still, Toad was not inclined to give in all at once. So he got out the boat, and set off rowing up the
river to where the garden front of Toad Hall came down to the water-side.
Arriving within sight of his old home, he rested on his oars and surveyed the land cautiously. All
seemed very peaceful and deserted and quiet. He could see the whole front of Toad Hall, glowing
in the evening sunshine, the pigeons settling by twos and threes along the straight line of the roof;
the garden, a blaze of flowers; the creek that led up to the boat-house, the little wooden bridge that
crossed it; all tranquil, uninhabited, apparently waiting for his return. He would try the boat-house
first, he thought. Very warily he paddled up to the mouth of the creek, and was just passing under
the bridge, when ... Crash!
A great stone, dropped from above, smashed through the bottom of the boat. It filled and sank, and
Toad found himself struggling in deep water. Looking up, he saw two stoats leaning over the
parapet of the bridge and watching him with great glee. "It will be your head next time, Toady!"
they called out to him. The indignant Toad swam to shore, while the stoats laughed and laughed,
supporting each other, and laughed again, till they nearly had two fits—that is, one fit each, of
course.
The Toad retraced his weary way on foot, and related his disappointing experiences to the Water
Rat once more.
"Well, what did I tell you?" said the Rat very crossly. "And, now, look here! See what you've been
and done! Lost me my boat that I was so fond of, that's what you've done! And simply ruined that
nice suit of clothes that I lent you! Really, Toad, of all the trying animals—I wonder you manage
to keep any friends at all!"
The Toad saw at once how wrongly and foolishly he had acted. He admitted his errors and wrong-
headedness and made a full apology to Rat for losing his boat and spoiling his clothes. And he
wound up by saying, with that frank self-surrender which always disarmed his friends' criticism
and won them back to his side, "Ratty! I see that I have been a headstrong and a wilful Toad!
Henceforth, believe me, I will be humble and submissive, and will take no action without your
kind advice and full approval!"
"If that is really so," said the good-natured Rat, already appeased, "then my advice to you is,
considering the lateness of the hour, to sit down and have your supper, which will be on the table
in a minute, and be very patient. For I am convinced that we can do nothing until we have seen the
Mole and the Badger, and heard their latest news, and held conference and taken their advice in
this difficult matter."
"Oh, ah, yes, of course, the Mole and the Badger," said Toad, lightly. "What's become of them, the
dear fellows? I had forgotten all about them."

"Well may you ask!" said the Rat reproachfully. "While you were riding about the country in
expensive motor-cars, and galloping proudly on blood-horses, and breakfasting on the fat of the
land, those two poor devoted animals have been camping out in the open, in every sort of weather,
living very rough by day and lying very hard by night; watching over your house, patrolling your
boundaries, keeping a constant eye on the stoats and the weasels, scheming and planning and
contriving how to get your property back for you. You don't deserve to have such true and loyal
friends, Toad, you don't, really. Some day, when it's too late, you'll be sorry you didn't value them
more while you had them!"
"I'm an ungrateful beast, I know," sobbed Toad, shedding bitter tears. "Let me go out and find
them, out into the cold, dark night, and share their hardships, and try and prove by—Hold on a bit!
Surely I heard the chink of dishes on a tray! Supper's here at last, hooray! Come on, Ratty!"
The Rat remembered that poor Toad had been on prison fare for a considerable time, and that large
allowances had therefore to be made. He followed him to the table accordingly, and hospitably
encouraged him in his gallant efforts to make up for past privations.
They had just finished their meal and resumed their arm-chairs, when there came a heavy knock at
the door.
Toad was nervous, but the Rat, nodding mysteriously at him, went straight up to the door and
opened it, and in walked Mr. Badger.
He had all the appearance of one who for some nights had been kept away from home and all its
little comforts and conveniences. His shoes were covered with mud, and he was looking very
rough and touzled; but then he had never been a very smart man, the Badger, at the best of times.
He came solemnly up to Toad, shook him by the paw, and said, "Welcome home, Toad! Alas! what
am I saying? Home, indeed! This is a poor home-coming. Unhappy Toad!" Then he turned his
back on him, sat down to the table, drew his chair up, and helped himself to a large slice of cold
pie.
Toad was quite alarmed at this very serious and portentous style of greeting; but the Rat whispered
to him, "Never mind; don't take any notice; and don't say anything to him just yet. He's always
rather low and despondent when he's wanting his victuals. In half an hour's time he'll be quite a
different animal."
So they waited in silence, and presently there came another and a lighter knock. The Rat, with a
nod to Toad, went to the door and ushered in the Mole, very shabby and unwashed, with bits of
hay and straw sticking in his fur.
"Hooray! Here's old Toad!" cried the Mole, his face beaming. "Fancy having you back again!" And
he began to dance round him. "We never dreamt you would turn up so soon! Why, you must have
managed to escape, you clever, ingenious, intelligent Toad!"
The Rat, alarmed, pulled him by the elbow; but it was too late. Toad was puffing and swelling
already.
"Clever? O, no!" he said. "I'm not really clever, according to my friends. I've only broken out of
the strongest prison in England, that's all! And captured a railway train and escaped on it, that's all!
And disguised myself and gone about the country humbugging everybody, that's all! O, no! I'm a
stupid ass, I am! I'll tell you one or two of my little adventures, Mole, and you shall judge for
yourself!"

"Well, well," said the Mole, moving towards the supper-table; "supposing you talk while I eat. Not
a bite since breakfast! O my! O my!" And he sat down and helped himself liberally to cold beef
and pickles.
Toad straddled on the hearth-rug, thrust his paw into his trouser-pocket and pulled out a handful of
silver. "Look at that!" he cried, displaying it. "That's not so bad, is it, for a few minutes' work? And
how do you think I done it, Mole? Horse-dealing! That's how I done it!"
"Go on, Toad," said the Mole, immensely interested.
"Toad, do be quiet, please!" said the Rat. "And don't you egg him on, Mole, when you know what
he is; but please tell us as soon as possible what the position is, and what's best to be done, now
that Toad is back at last."
"The position's about as bad as it can be," replied the Mole grumpily; "and as for what's to be
done, why, blest if I know! The Badger and I have been round and round the place, by night and by
day; always the same thing. Sentries posted everywhere, guns poked out at us, stones thrown at us;
always an animal on the look-out, and when they see us, my! how they do laugh! That's what
annoys me most!"
"It's a very difficult situation," said the Rat, reflecting deeply. "But I think I see now, in the depths
of my mind, what Toad really ought to do. I will tell you. He ought to—"
"No, he oughtn't!" shouted the Mole, with his mouth full. "Nothing of the sort! You don't
understand. What he ought to do is, he ought to—"
"Well, I shan't do it, anyway!" cried Toad, getting excited. "I'm not going to be ordered about by
you fellows! It's my house we're talking about, and I know exactly what to do, and I'll tell you. I'm
going to—"
By this time they were all three talking at once, at the top of their voices, and the noise was simply
deafening, when a thin, dry voice made itself heard, saying, "Be quiet at once, all of you!" and
instantly every one was silent.
It was the Badger, who, having finished his pie, had turned round in his chair and was looking at
them severely. When he saw that he had secured their attention, and that they were evidently
waiting for him to address them, he turned back to the table again and reached out for the cheese.
And so great was the respect commanded by the solid qualities of that admirable animal, that not
another word was uttered, until he had quite finished his repast and brushed the crumbs from his
knees. The Toad fidgeted a good deal, but the Rat held him firmly down.
When the Badger had quite done, he got up from his seat and stood before the fireplace, reflecting
deeply. At last he spoke.
"Toad," he said severely. "You bad, troublesome little animal! Aren't you ashamed of yourself?
What do you think your father, my old friend, would have said if he had been here to-night, and
had known of all your goings on?"
Toad, who was on the sofa by this time, with his legs up, rolled over on his face, shaken by sobs of
contrition.
"There, there!" went on the Badger, more kindly. "Never mind. Stop crying. We're going to let
bygones be bygones, and try and turn over a new leaf. But what the Mole says is quite true. The

stoats are on guard, at every point, and they make the best sentinels in the world. It's quite useless
to think of attacking the place. They're too strong for us."
"Then it's all over," sobbed the Toad, crying into the sofa cushions. "I shall go and enlist for a
soldier, and never see my dear Toad Hall any more!"
"Come, cheer up, Toady!" said the Badger. "There are more ways of getting back a place than
taking it by storm. I haven't said my last word yet. Now I'm going to tell you a great secret."
Toad sat up slowly and dried his eyes. Secrets had an immense attraction for him, because he never
could keep one, and he enjoyed the sort of unhallowed thrill he experienced when he went and told
another animal, after having faithfully promised not to.
"There—is—an—underground—passage," said the Badger, impressively, "that leads from the
river-bank, quite near here, right up into the middle of Toad Hall."
"O, nonsense! Badger," said Toad, rather airily. "You've been listening to some of the yarns they
spin in the public-houses about here. I know every inch of Toad Hall, inside and out. Nothing of
the sort, I do assure you!"
"My young friend," said the Badger, with great severity, "your father, who was a worthy animal—a
lot worthier than some others I know—was a particular friend of mine, and told me a great deal he
wouldn't have dreamt of telling you. He discovered that passage—he didn't make it, of course; that
was done hundreds of years before he ever came to live there—and he repaired it and cleaned it
out, because he thought it might come in useful some day, in case of trouble or danger; and he
showed it to me. 'Don't let my son know about it,' he said. 'He's a good boy, but very light and
volatile in character, and simply cannot hold his tongue. If he's ever in a real fix, and it would be of
use to him, you may tell him about the secret passage; but not before.'"
The other animals looked hard at Toad to see how he would take it. Toad was inclined to be sulky
at first; but he brightened up immediately, like the good fellow he was.
"Well, well," he said; "perhaps I am a bit of a talker. A popular fellow such as I am—my friends
get round me—we chaff, we sparkle, we tell witty stories—and somehow my tongue gets
wagging. I have the gift of conversation. I've been told I ought to have a salon, whatever that may
be. Never mind. Go on, Badger. How's this passage of yours going to help us?"
"I've found out a thing or two lately," continued the Badger. "I got Otter to disguise himself as a
sweep and call at the back-door with brushes over his shoulder, asking for a job. There's going to
be a big banquet to-morrow night. It's somebody's birthday—the Chief Weasel's, I believe—and all
the weasels will be gathered together in the dining-hall, eating and drinking and laughing and
carrying on, suspecting nothing. No guns, no swords, no sticks, no arms of any sort whatever!"
"But the sentinels will be posted as usual," remarked the Rat.
"Exactly," said the Badger; "that is my point. The weasels will trust entirely to their excellent
sentinels. And that is where the passage comes in. That very useful tunnel leads right up under the
butler's pantry, next to the dining-hall!"
"Aha! that squeaky board in the butler's pantry!" said Toad. "Now I understand it!"
"We shall creep out quietly into the butler's pantry—" cried the Mole.

"—with our pistols and swords and sticks—" shouted the Rat.
"—and rush in upon them," said the Badger.
"—and whack 'em, and whack 'em, and whack 'em!" cried the Toad in ecstasy, running round and
round the room, and jumping over the chairs.
"Very well, then," said the Badger, resuming his usual dry manner, "our plan is settled, and there's
nothing more for you to argue and squabble about. So, as it's getting very late, all of you go right
off to bed at once. We will make all the necessary arrangements in the course of the morning to-
morrow."
Toad, of course, went off to bed dutifully with the rest—he knew better than to refuse—though he
was feeling much too excited to sleep. But he had had a long day, with many events crowded into
it; and sheets and blankets were very friendly and comforting things, after plain straw, and not too
much of it, spread on the stone floor of a draughty cell; and his head had not been many seconds
on his pillow before he was snoring happily. Naturally, he dreamt a good deal; about roads that ran
away from him just when he wanted them, and canals that chased him and caught him, and a barge
that sailed into the banqueting-hall with his week's washing, just as he was giving a dinner-party;
and he was alone in the secret passage, pushing onwards, but it twisted and turned round and
shook itself, and sat up on its end; yet somehow, at the last, he found himself back in Toad Hall,
safe and triumphant, with all his friends gathered round about him, earnestly assuring him that he
really was a clever Toad.
He slept till a late hour next morning, and by the time he got down he found that the other animals
had finished their breakfast some time before. The Mole had slipped off somewhere by himself,
without telling any one where he was going to. The Badger sat in the arm-chair, reading the paper,
and not concerning himself in the slightest about what was going to happen that very evening. The
Rat, on the other hand, was running round the room busily, with his arms full of weapons of every
kind, distributing them in four little heaps on the floor, and saying excitedly under his breath, as he
ran, "Here's-a-sword-for-the-Rat, here's-a-sword-for-the-Mole, here's-a-sword-for-the-Toad, here's-
a-sword-for-the-Badger! Here's-a-pistol-for-the-Rat, here's-a-pistol-for-the-Mole, here's-a-pistol-
for-the-Toad, here's-a-pistol-for-the-Badger!" And so on, in a regular, rhythmical way, while the
four little heaps gradually grew and grew.
"That's all very well, Rat," said the Badger presently, looking at the busy little animal over the
edge of his newspaper; "I'm not blaming you. But just let us once get past the stoats, with those
detestable guns of theirs, and I assure you we shan't want any swords or pistols. We four, with our
sticks, once we're inside the dining-hall, why, we shall clear the floor of all the lot of them in five
minutes. I'd have done the whole thing by myself, only I didn't want to deprive you fellows of the
fun!"
"It's as well to be on the safe side," said the Rat reflectively, polishing a pistol-barrel on his sleeve
and looking along it.
The Toad, having finished his breakfast, picked up a stout stick and swung it vigorously,
belabouring imaginary animals. "I'll learn 'em to steal my house!" he cried. "I'll learn 'em, I'll learn
'em!"
"Don't say 'learn 'em,' Toad," said the Rat, greatly shocked. "It's not good English."

"What are you always nagging at Toad for?" inquired the Badger, rather peevishly. "What's the
matter with his English? It's the same what I use myself, and if it's good enough for me, it ought to
be good enough for you!"
"I'm very sorry," said the Rat humbly. "Only I think it ought to be 'teach 'em,' not 'learn 'em.'"
"But we don't want to teach 'em," replied the Badger. "We want to learn 'em—learn 'em, learn 'em!
And what's more, we're going to do it, too!"
"Oh, very well, have it your own way," said the Rat. He was getting rather muddled about it
himself, and presently he retired into a corner, where he could be heard muttering, "Learn 'em,
teach 'em, teach 'em, learn 'em!" till the Badger told him rather sharply to leave off.
Presently the Mole came tumbling into the room, evidently very pleased with himself. "I've been
having such fun!" he began at once; "I've been getting a rise out of the stoats!"
"I hope you've been very careful, Mole?" said the Rat anxiously.
"I should hope so, too," said the Mole confidently. "I got the idea when I went into the kitchen, to
see about Toad's breakfast being kept hot for him. I found that old washerwoman-dress that he
came home in yesterday, hanging on a towel-horse before the fire. So I put it on, and the bonnet as
well, and the shawl, and off I went to Toad Hall, as bold as you please. The sentries were on the
look-out, of course, with their guns and their 'Who comes there?' and all the rest of their nonsense.
'Good morning, gentlemen!' says I, very respectful. 'Want any washing done to-day?' They looked
at me very proud and stiff and haughty, and said, 'Go away, washerwoman! We don't do any
washing on duty.' 'Or any other time?' says I. Ho, ho, ho! Wasn't I funny, Toad?"
"Poor, frivolous animal!" said Toad, very loftily. The fact is, he felt exceedingly jealous of Mole
for what he had just done. It was exactly what he would have liked to have done himself, if only he
had thought of it first, and hadn't gone and overslept himself.
"Some of the stoats turned quite pink," continued the Mole, "and the Sergeant in charge, he said to
me, very short, he said, 'Now run away, my good woman, run away! Don't keep my men idling and
talking on their posts.' 'Run away?' says I; 'it won't be me that'll be running away, in a very short
time from now!'"
"O Moly, how could you?" said the Rat, dismayed.
The Badger laid down his paper.
"I could see them pricking up their ears and looking at each other," went on the Mole; "and the
Sergeant said to them, 'Never mind her; she doesn't know what she's talking about.'"
"'O! don't I?' said I. 'Well, let me tell you this. My daughter, she washes for Mr. Badger, and that'll
show you whether I know what I'm talking about; and you'll know pretty soon, too! A hundred
bloodthirsty badgers, armed with rifles, are going to attack Toad Hall this very night, by way of the
paddock. Six boatloads of Rats, with pistols and cutlasses, will come up the river and effect a
landing in the garden; while a picked body of Toads, known as the Die-hards, or the Death-or-
Glory Toads, will storm the orchard and carry everything before them, yelling for vengeance.
There won't be much left of you to wash, by the time they've done with you, unless you clear out
while you have the chance!' Then I ran away, and when I was out of sight I hid; and presently I
came creeping back along the ditch and took a peep at them through the hedge. They were all as

nervous and flustered as could be, running all ways at once, and falling over each other, and every
one giving orders to everybody else and not listening; and the Sergeant kept sending off parties of
stoats to distant parts of the grounds, and then sending other fellows to fetch 'em back again; and I
heard them saying to each other, 'That's just like the weasels; they're to stop comfortably in the
banqueting-hall, and have feasting and toasts and songs and all sorts of fun, while we must stay on
guard in the cold and the dark, and in the end be cut to pieces by bloodthirsty Badgers!'"
"Oh, you silly ass, Mole!" cried Toad, "You've been and spoilt everything!"
"Mole," said the Badger, in his dry, quiet way, "I perceive you have more sense in your little finger
than some other animals have in the whole of their fat bodies. You have managed excellently, and I
begin to have great hopes of you. Good Mole! Clever Mole!"
The Toad was simply wild with jealousy, more especially as he couldn't make out for the life of
him what the Mole had done that was so particularly clever; but, fortunately for him, before he
could show temper or expose himself to the Badger's sarcasm, the bell rang for luncheon.
It was a simple but sustaining meal—bacon and broad beans, and a macaroni pudding; and when
they had quite done, the Badger settled himself into an arm-chair, and said, "Well, we've got our
work cut out for us to-night, and it will probably be pretty late before we're quite through with it;
so I'm just going to take forty winks, while I can." And he drew a handkerchief over his face and
was soon snoring.
The anxious and laborious Rat at once resumed his preparations, and started running between his
four little heaps, muttering, "Here's-a-belt-for-the-Rat, here's-a-belt-for-the-Mole, here's-a-belt-for-
the-Toad, here's-a-belt-for-the-Badger!" and so on, with every fresh accoutrement he produced, to
which there seemed really no end; so the Mole drew his arm through Toad's, led him out into the
open air, shoved him into a wicker chair, and made him tell him all his adventures from beginning
to end, which Toad was only too willing to do. The Mole was a good listener, and Toad, with no
one to check his statements or to criticise in an unfriendly spirit, rather let himself go. Indeed,
much that he related belonged more properly to the category of what-might-have-happened-had-I-
only-thought-of-it-in-time-instead-of-ten-minutes-afterwards. Those are always the best and the
raciest adventures; and why should they not be truly ours, as much as the somewhat inadequate
things that really come off?

XII

THE RETURN OF
ULYSSES

W
HEN it began to grow dark, the Rat, with an air of excitement and mystery, summoned
them back into the parlour, stood each of them up alongside of his little heap, and
proceeded to dress them up for the coming expedition. He was very earnest and
thorough-going about it, and the affair took quite a long time. First, there was a belt to go round
each animal, and then a sword to be stuck into each belt, and then a cutlass on the other side to
balance it. Then a pair of pistols, a policeman's truncheon, several sets of handcuffs, some
bandages and sticking-plaster, and a flask and a sandwich-case. The Badger laughed good-
humouredly and said, "All right, Ratty! It amuses you and it doesn't hurt me. I'm going to do all
I've got to do with this here stick." But the Rat only said, "Please, Badger. You know I shouldn't
like you to blame me afterwards and say I had forgotten anything!"
When all was quite ready, the Badger took a dark lantern in one paw, grasped his great stick with
the other, and said, "Now then, follow me! Mole first, 'cos I'm very pleased with him; Rat next;
Toad last. And look here, Toady! Don't you chatter so much as usual, or you'll be sent back, as sure
as fate!"
The Toad was so anxious not to be left out that he took up the inferior position assigned to him
without a murmur, and the animals set off. The Badger led them along by the river for a little way,
and then suddenly swung himself over the edge into a hole in the river bank, a little above the
water. The Mole and the Rat followed silently, swinging themselves successfully into the hole as
they had seen the Badger do; but when it came to Toad's turn, of course he managed to slip and fall
into the water with a loud splash and a squeal of alarm. He was hauled out by his friends, rubbed
down and wrung out hastily, comforted, and set on his legs; but the Badger was seriously angry,
and told him that the very next time he made a fool of himself he would most certainly be left
behind.

The Badger said, "Now then, follow me!"
So at last they were in the secret passage, and the cutting-out expedition had really begun!
It was cold, and dark, and damp, and low, and narrow, and poor Toad began to shiver, partly from
dread of what might be before him, partly because he was wet through. The lantern was far ahead,
and he could not help lagging behind a little in the darkness. Then he heard the Rat call out
warningly, "Come on, Toad!" and a terror seized him of being left behind, alone in the darkness,
and he "came on" with such a rush that he upset the Rat into the Mole, and the Mole into the
Badger, and for a moment all was confusion. The Badger thought they were being attacked from
behind, and, as there was no room to use a stick or a cutlass, drew a pistol, and was on the point of
putting a bullet into Toad. When he found out what had really happened he was very angry indeed,
and said, "Now this time that tiresome Toad shall be left behind!"
But Toad whimpered, and the other two promised that they would be answerable for his good
conduct, and at last the Badger was pacified, and the procession moved on; only this time the Rat
brought up the rear, with a firm grip on the shoulder of Toad.
So they groped and shuffled along, with their ears pricked up and their paws on their pistols, till at
last the Badger said, "We ought by now to be pretty nearly under the Hall."
Then suddenly they heard, far away as it might be, and yet apparently nearly over their heads, a
confused murmur of sound, as if people were shouting and cheering and stamping on the floor and
hammering on tables. The Toad's nervous terrors all returned, but the Badger only remarked
placidly, "They are going it, the weasels!"

The passage now began to slope upwards; they groped onward a little further, and then the noise
broke out again, quite distinct this time, and very close above them. "Ooo-ray-oo-ray-oo-ray-
ooray!" they heard, and the stamping of little feet on the floor, and the clinking of glasses as little
fists pounded on the table. "What a time they're having!" said the Badger. "Come on!" They
hurried along the passage till it came to a full stop, and they found themselves standing under the
trap-door that led up into the butler's pantry.
Such a tremendous noise was going on in the banqueting-hall that there was little danger of their
being overheard. The Badger said, "Now, boys, all together!" and the four of them put their
shoulders to the trap-door and heaved it back. Hoisting each other up, they found themselves
standing in the pantry, with only a door between them and the banqueting-hall, where their
unconscious enemies were carousing.
The noise, as they emerged from the passage, was simply deafening. At last, as the cheering and
hammering slowly subsided, a voice could be made out saying, "Well, I do not propose to detain
you much longer"—(great applause)—"but before I resume my seat"—(renewed cheering)—"I
should like to say one word about our kind host, Mr. Toad. We all know Toad!"—(great laughter)
—"Good Toad, modest Toad, honest Toad!" (shrieks of merriment).
"Only just let me get at him!" muttered Toad, grinding his teeth.
"Hold hard a minute!" said the Badger, restraining him with difficulty. "Get ready, all of you!"
"—Let me sing you a little song," went on the voice, "which I have composed on the subject of
Toad"—(prolonged applause).
Then the Chief Weasel—for it was he—began in a high, squeaky voice—

"Toad he went a-pleasuring
Gaily down the street—"

The Badger drew himself up, took a firm grip of his stick with both paws, glanced round at his
comrades, and cried—
"The hour is come! Follow me!"
And flung the door open wide.
My!
What a squealing and a squeaking and a screeching filled the air!
Well might the terrified weasels dive under the tables and spring madly up at the windows! Well
might the ferrets rush wildly for the fireplace and get hopelessly jammed in the chimney! Well
might tables and chairs be upset, and glass and china be sent crashing on the floor, in the panic of
that terrible moment when the four Heroes strode wrathfully into the room! The mighty Badger,
his whiskers bristling, his great cudgel whistling through the air; Mole, black and grim,
brandishing his stick and shouting his awful war-cry, "A Mole! A Mole!" Rat, desperate and
determined, his belt bulging with weapons of every age and every variety; Toad, frenzied with
excitement and injured pride, swollen to twice his ordinary size, leaping into the air and emitting
Toad-whoops that chilled them to the marrow! "Toad he went a-pleasuring!" he yelled. "I'll
pleasure 'em!" and he went straight for the Chief Weasel. They were but four in all, but to the

panic-stricken weasels the hall seemed full of monstrous animals, grey, black, brown and yellow,
whooping and flourishing enormous cudgels; and they broke and fled with squeals of terror and
dismay, this way and that, through the windows, up the chimney, anywhere to get out of reach of
those terrible sticks.
The affair was soon over. Up and down, the whole length of the hall, strode the four Friends,
whacking with their sticks at every head that showed itself; and in five minutes the room was
cleared. Through the broken windows the shrieks of terrified weasels escaping across the lawn
were borne faintly to their ears; on the floor lay prostrate some dozen or so of the enemy, on whom
the Mole was busily engaged in fitting handcuffs. The Badger, resting from his labours, leant on
his stick and wiped his honest brow.
"Mole," he said, "you're the best of fellows! Just cut along outside and look after those stoat-
sentries of yours, and see what they're doing. I've an idea that, thanks to you, we shan't have much
trouble from them to-night!"
The Mole vanished promptly through a window; and the Badger bade the other two set a table on
its legs again, pick up knives and forks and plates and glasses from the débris on the floor, and see
if they could find materials for a supper. "I want some grub, I do," he said, in that rather common
way he had of speaking. "Stir your stumps, Toad, and look lively! We've got your house back for
you, and you don't offer us so much as a sandwich."
Toad felt rather hurt that the Badger didn't say pleasant things to him, as he had to the Mole, and
tell him what a fine fellow he was, and how splendidly he had fought; for he was rather
particularly pleased with himself and the way he had gone for the Chief Weasel and sent him
flying across the table with one blow of his stick. But he bustled about, and so did the Rat, and
soon they found some guava jelly in a glass dish, and a cold chicken, a tongue that had hardly been
touched, some trifle, and quite a lot of lobster salad; and in the pantry they came upon a basketful
of French rolls and any quantity of cheese, butter, and celery. They were just about to sit down
when the Mole clambered in through the window, chuckling, with an armful of rifles.
"It's all over," he reported. "From what I can make out, as soon as the stoats, who were very
nervous and jumpy already, heard the shrieks and the yells and the uproar inside the hall, some of
them threw down their rifles and fled. The others stood fast for a bit, but when the weasels came
rushing out upon them they thought they were betrayed; and the stoats grappled with the weasels,
and the weasels fought to get away, and they wrestled and wriggled and punched each other, and
rolled over and over, till most of 'em rolled into the river! They've all disappeared by now, one way
or another; and I've got their rifles. So that's all right!"
"Excellent and deserving animal!" said the Badger, his mouth full of chicken and trifle. "Now,
there's just one more thing I want you to do, Mole, before you sit down to your supper along of us;
and I wouldn't trouble you only I know I can trust you to see a thing done, and I wish I could say
the same of every one I know. I'd send Rat, if he wasn't a poet. I want you to take those fellows on
the floor there upstairs with you, and have some bedrooms cleaned out and tidied up and made
really comfortable. See that they sweep under the beds, and put clean sheets and pillow-cases on,
and turn down one corner of the bed-clothes, just as you know it ought to be done; and have a can
of hot water, and clean towels, and fresh cakes of soap, put in each room. And then you can give
them a licking a-piece, if it's any satisfaction to you, and put them out by the back-door, and we
shan't see any more of them, I fancy. And then come along and have some of this cold tongue. It's
first rate. I'm very pleased with you, Mole!"

The good-natured Mole picked up a stick, formed his prisoners up in a line on the floor, gave them
the order "Quick march!" and led his squad off to the upper floor. After a time, he appeared again,
smiling, and said that every room was ready and as clean as a new pin. "And I didn't have to lick
them, either," he added. "I thought, on the whole, they had had licking enough for one night, and
the weasels, when I put the point to them, quite agreed with me, and said they wouldn't think of
troubling me. They were very penitent, and said they were extremely sorry for what they had done,
but it was all the fault of the Chief Weasel and the stoats, and if ever they could do anything for us
at any time to make up, we had only got to mention it. So I gave them a roll a-piece, and let them
out at the back, and off they ran, as hard as they could!"
Then the Mole pulled his chair up to the table, and pitched into the cold tongue; and Toad, like the
gentleman he was, put all his jealousy from him, and said heartily, "Thank you kindly, dear Mole,
for all your pains and trouble to-night, and especially for your cleverness this morning!" The
Badger was pleased at that, and said, "There spoke my brave Toad!" So they finished their supper
in great joy and contentment, and presently retired to rest between clean sheets, safe in Toad's
ancestral home, won back by matchless valour, consummate strategy, and a proper handling of
sticks.
The following morning, Toad, who had overslept himself as usual, came down to breakfast
disgracefully late, and found on the table a certain quantity of egg-shells, some fragments of cold
and leathery toast, a coffee-pot three-fourths empty, and really very little else; which did not tend
to improve his temper, considering that, after all, it was his own house. Through the French
windows of the breakfast-room he could see the Mole and the Water Rat sitting in wicker chairs
out on the lawn, evidently telling each other stories; roaring with laughter and kicking their short
legs up in the air. The Badger, who was in an arm-chair and deep in the morning paper, merely
looked up and nodded when Toad entered the room. But Toad knew his man, so he sat down and
made the best breakfast he could, merely observing to himself that he would get square with the
others sooner or later. When he had nearly finished, the Badger looked up and remarked rather
shortly: "I'm sorry, Toad, but I'm afraid there's a heavy morning's work in front of you. You see, we
really ought to have a Banquet at once, to celebrate this affair. It's expected of you—in fact, it's the
rule."
"O, all right!" said the Toad, readily. "Anything to oblige. Though why on earth you should want
to have a Banquet in the morning I cannot understand. But you know I do not live to please
myself, but merely to find out what my friends want, and then try and arrange it for 'em, you dear
old Badger!"
"Don't pretend to be stupider than you really are," replied the Badger, crossly; "and don't chuckle
and splutter in your coffee while you're talking; it's not manners. What I mean is, the Banquet will
be at night, of course, but the invitations will have to be written and got off at once, and you've got
to write 'em. Now sit down at that table—there's stacks of letter-paper on it, with 'Toad Hall' at the
top in blue and gold—and write invitations to all our friends, and if you stick to it we shall get
them out before luncheon. And I'll bear a hand, too, and take my share of the burden. I'll order the
Banquet."
"What!" cried Toad, dismayed. "Me stop indoors and write a lot of rotten letters on a jolly morning
like this, when I want to go around my property and set everything and everybody to rights, and
swagger about and enjoy myself! Certainly not! I'll be—I'll see you—Stop a minute, though! Why,
of course, dear Badger! What is my pleasure or convenience compared with that of others! You
wish it done, and it shall be done. Go, Badger, order the Banquet, order what you like; then join

our young friends outside in their innocent mirth, oblivious of me and my cares and toils. I
sacrifice this fair morning on the altar of duty and friendship!"
The Badger looked at him very suspiciously, but Toad's frank, open countenance made it difficult
to suggest any unworthy motive in this change of attitude. He quitted the room, accordingly, in the
direction of the kitchen, and as soon as the door had closed behind him, Toad hurried to the
writing-table. A fine idea had occurred to him while he was talking. He would write the invitations;
and he would take care to mention the leading part he had taken in the fight, and how he had laid
the Chief Weasel flat; and he would hint at his adventures, and what a career of triumph he had to
tell about; and on the fly-leaf he would set out a sort of a programme of entertainment for the
evening—something like this, as he sketched it out in his head:—

Speech By Toad.
(There will be other speeches by Toad during
the evening.)

Address By Toad
Synopsis—Our Prison System—the Waterways of Old
England—Horse-dealing, and how to deal—Property,
its rights and its duties—Back to the Land—A
Typical English Squire.

Song By Toad.
(Composed by himself.)

Other Compositions By Toad
will be sung in the course of the
evening by the Composer.

The idea pleased him mightily, and he worked very hard and got all the letters finished by noon, at
which hour it was reported to him that there was a small and rather bedraggled weasel at the door,
inquiring timidly whether he could be of any service to the gentleman. Toad swaggered out and
found it was one of the prisoners of the previous evening, very respectful and anxious to please.
He patted him on the head, shoved the bundle of invitations into his paw, and told him to cut along
quick and deliver them as fast as he could, and if he liked to come back again in the evening,
perhaps there might be a shilling for him, or, again, perhaps there mightn't; and the poor weasel
seemed really quite grateful, and hurried off eagerly to do his mission.
When the other animals came back to luncheon, very boisterous and breezy after a morning on the
river, the Mole, whose conscience had been pricking him, looked doubtfully at Toad, expecting to
find him sulky or depressed. Instead, he was so uppish and inflated that the Mole began to suspect
something; while the Rat and the Badger exchanged significant glances.
As soon as the meal was over, Toad thrust his paws deep into his trouser-pockets, remarked
casually, "Well, look after yourselves, you fellows! Ask for anything you want!" and was
swaggering off in the direction of the garden, where he wanted to think out an idea or two for his
coming speeches, when the Rat caught him by the arm.

Toad rather suspected what he was after, and did his best to get away; but when the Badger took
him firmly by the other arm he began to see that the game was up. The two animals conducted him
between them into the small smoking-room that opened out of the entrance-hall, shut the door, and
put him into a chair. Then they both stood in front of him, while Toad sat silent and regarded them
with much suspicion and ill-humour.
"Now, look here, Toad," said the Rat. "It's about this Banquet, and very sorry I am to have to speak
to you like this. But we want you to understand clearly, once and for all, that there are going to be
no speeches and no songs. Try and grasp the fact that on this occasion we're not arguing with you;
we're just telling you."
Toad saw that he was trapped. They understood him, they saw through him, they had got ahead of
him. His pleasant dream was shattered.
"Mayn't I sing them just one little song?" he pleaded piteously.
"No, not one little song," replied the Rat firmly, though his heart bled as he noticed the trembling
lip of the poor disappointed Toad. "It's no good, Toady; you know well that your songs are all
conceit and boasting and vanity; and your speeches are all self-praise and—and—well, and gross
exaggeration and—and—"
"And gas," put in the Badger, in his common way.
"It's for your own good, Toady," went on the Rat. "You know you must turn over a new leaf sooner
or later, and now seems a splendid time to begin; a sort of turning-point in your career. Please don't
think that saying all this doesn't hurt me more than it hurts you."
Toad remained a long while plunged in thought. At last he raised his head, and the traces of strong
emotion were visible on his features. "You have conquered, my friends," he said in broken accents.
"It was, to be sure, but a small thing that I asked—merely leave to blossom and expand for yet one
more evening, to let myself go and hear the tumultuous applause that always seems to me—
somehow—to bring out my best qualities. However, you are right, I know, and I am wrong.
Henceforth I will be a very different Toad. My friends, you shall never have occasion to blush for
me again. But, O dear, O dear, this is a hard world!"
And, pressing his handkerchief to his face, he left the room, with faltering footsteps.
"Badger," said the Rat, "I feel like a brute; I wonder what you feel like?"
"O, I know, I know," said the Badger gloomily. "But the thing had to be done. This good fellow has
got to live here, and hold his own, and be respected. Would you have him a common laughing-
stock, mocked and jeered at by stoats and weasels?"
"Of course not," said the Rat. "And, talking of weasels, it's lucky we came upon that little weasel,
just as he was setting out with Toad's invitations. I suspected something from what you told me,
and had a look at one or two; they were simply disgraceful. I confiscated the lot, and the good
Mole is now sitting in the blue boudoir, filling up plain, simple invitation cards."

At last the hour for the banquet began to draw near, and Toad, who on leaving the others had
retired to his bedroom, was still sitting there, melancholy and thoughtful. His brow resting on his
paw, he pondered long and deeply. Gradually his countenance cleared, and he began to smile long,
slow smiles. Then he took to giggling in a shy, self-conscious manner. At last he got up, locked the
door, drew the curtains across the windows, collected all the chairs in the room and arranged them
in a semicircle, and took up his position in front of them, swelling visibly. Then he bowed,
coughed twice, and, letting himself go, with uplifted voice he sang, to the enraptured audience that
his imagination so clearly saw:

TOAD'S LAST LITTLE SONG

The Toad—came—home!
There was panic in the parlours and howling in the halls,
There was crying in the cow-sheds and shrieking in the stalls,
When the Toad—came—home!

When the Toad—came—home!
There was smashing in of window and crashing in of door,
There was chivvying of weasels that fainted on the floor,
When the Toad—came—home!

Bang! go the drums!
The trumpeters are tooting and the soldiers are saluting,
And the cannon they are shooting and the motor-cars are hooting,
As the—Hero—comes!

Shout—Hoo-ray!
And let each one of the crowd try and shout it very loud,
In honour of an animal of whom you're justly proud,
For it's Toad's—great—day!

He sang this very loud, with great unction and expression; and when he had done, he sang it all
over again.
Then he heaved a deep sigh; a long, long, long sigh.
Then he dipped his hairbrush in the water-jug, parted his hair in the middle, and plastered it down
very straight and sleek on each side of his face; and, unlocking the door, went quietly down the
stairs to greet his guests, who he knew must be assembling in the drawing-room.
All the animals cheered when he entered, and crowded round to congratulate him and say nice
things about his courage, and his cleverness, and his fighting qualities; but Toad only smiled
faintly, and murmured, "Not at all!" Or, sometimes, for a change, "On the contrary!" Otter, who
was standing on the hearthrug, describing to an admiring circle of friends exactly how he would
have managed things had he been there, came forward with a shout, threw his arm round Toad's
neck, and tried to take him round the room in triumphal progress; but Toad, in a mild way, was
rather snubby to him, remarking gently, as he disengaged himself, "Badger's was the master mind;
the Mole and the Water Rat bore the brunt of the fighting; I merely served in the ranks and did
little or nothing." The animals were evidently puzzled and taken aback by this unexpected attitude

of his; and Toad felt, as he moved from one guest to the other, making his modest responses, that
he was an object of absorbing interest to every one.
The Badger had ordered everything of the best, and the banquet was a great success. There was
much talking and laughter and chaff among the animals, but through it all Toad, who of course was
in the chair, looked down his nose and murmured pleasant nothings to the animals on either side of
him. At intervals he stole a glance at the Badger and the Rat, and always when he looked they were
staring at each other with their mouths open; and this gave him the greatest satisfaction. Some of
the younger and livelier animals, as the evening wore on, got whispering to each other that things
were not so amusing as they used to be in the good old days; and there were some knockings on
the table and cries of "Toad! Speech! Speech from Toad! Song! Mr. Toad's song!" But Toad only
shook his head gently, raised one paw in mild protest, and, by pressing delicacies on his guests, by
topical small-talk, and by earnest inquiries after members of their families not yet old enough to
appear at social functions, managed to convey to them that this dinner was being run on strictly
conventional lines.
He was indeed an altered Toad!

After this climax, the four animals continued to lead their lives, so rudely broken in upon by civil
war, in great joy and contentment, undisturbed by further risings or invasions. Toad, after due
consultation with his friends, selected a handsome gold chain and locket set with pearls, which he
dispatched to the gaoler's daughter, with a letter that even the Badger admitted to be modest,
grateful, and appreciative; and the engine-driver, in his turn, was properly thanked and
compensated for all his pains and trouble. Under severe compulsion from the Badger, even the
barge-woman was, with some trouble, sought out and the value of her horse discreetly made good
to her; though Toad kicked terribly at this, holding himself to be an instrument of Fate, sent to
punish fat women with mottled arms who couldn't tell a real gentleman when they saw one. The
amount involved, it was true, was not very burdensome, the gipsy's valuation being admitted by
local assessors to be approximately correct.
Sometimes, in the course of long summer evenings, the friends would take a stroll together in the
Wild Wood, now successfully tamed so far as they were concerned; and it was pleasing to see how
respectfully they were greeted by the inhabitants, and how the mother-weasels would bring their
young ones to the mouths of their holes, and say, pointing, "Look, baby! There goes the great Mr.
Toad! And that's the gallant Water Rat, a terrible fighter, walking along o' him! And yonder comes
the famous Mr. Mole, of whom you so often have heard your father tell!" But when their infants
were fractious and quite beyond control, they would quiet them by telling how, if they didn't hush
them and not fret them, the terrible grey Badger would up and get them. This was a base libel on
Badger, who, though he cared little about Society, was rather fond of children; but it never failed to
have its full effect.
The Wind in the Willows

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