Summarize in plain English: The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame
I.
THE RIVER BANK
The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning
his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders
and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had
dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his
black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the
air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his
dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and
longing. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his
brush on the floor, said “Bother!” and “O blow!” and also “Hang
spring-cleaning!” and bolted out of the house without even waiting to
put on his coat. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and he
made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the
gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer
to the sun and air. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and
scrooged and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and
scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself,
“Up we go! Up we go!” till at last, pop! his snout came out into the
sunlight, and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great
meadow.
“This is fine!” he said to himself. “This is better than whitewashing!”
The sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated
brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long
the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a
shout. Jumping off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living and
the delight of spring without its cleaning, he pursued his way across
the meadow till he reached the hedge on the further side.
“Hold up!” said an elderly rabbit at the gap. “Sixpence for the
privilege of passing by the private road!” He was bowled over in an
instant by the impatient and contemptuous Mole, who trotted along the
side of the hedge chaffing the other rabbits as they peeped hurriedly
from their holes to see what the row was about. “Onion-sauce!
Onion-sauce!” he remarked jeeringly, and was gone before they could
think of a thoroughly satisfactory reply. Then they all started
grumbling at each other. “How _stupid_ you are! Why didn’t you tell
him——” “Well, why didn’t _you_ say——” “You might have reminded him——”
and so on, in the usual way; but, of course, it was then much too late,
as is always the case.
It all seemed too good to be true. Hither and thither through the
meadows he rambled busily, along the hedgerows, across the copses,
finding everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves
thrusting—everything happy, and progressive, and occupied. And instead
of having an uneasy conscience pricking him and whispering “whitewash!”
he somehow could only feel how jolly it was to be the only idle dog
among all these busy citizens. After all, the best part of a holiday is
perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other
fellows busy working.
He thought his happiness was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly
along, suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed river. Never in his
life had he seen a river before—this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied
animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and
leaving them with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that
shook themselves free, and were caught and held again. All was a-shake
and a-shiver—glints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter
and bubble. The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side
of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a
man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at
last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a
babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the
heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.
As he sat on the grass and looked across the river, a dark hole in the
bank opposite, just above the water’s edge, caught his eye, and
dreamily he fell to considering what a nice snug dwelling-place it
would make for an animal with few wants and fond of a bijou riverside
residence, above flood level and remote from noise and dust. As he
gazed, something bright and small seemed to twinkle down in the heart
of it, vanished, then twinkled once more like a tiny star. But it could
hardly be a star in such an unlikely situation; and it was too
glittering and small for a glow-worm. Then, as he looked, it winked at
him, and so declared itself to be an eye; and a small face began
gradually to grow up round it, like a frame round a picture.
A brown little face, with whiskers.
A grave round face, with the same twinkle in its eye that had first
attracted his notice.
Small neat ears and thick silky hair.
It was the Water Rat!
Then the two animals stood and regarded each other cautiously.
“Hullo, Mole!” said the Water Rat.
“Hullo, Rat!” said the Mole.
“Would you like to come over?” enquired the Rat presently.
“Oh, its all very well to _talk_,” said the Mole, rather pettishly, he
being new to a river and riverside life and its ways.
The Rat said nothing, but stooped and unfastened a rope and hauled on
it; then lightly stepped into a little boat which the Mole had not
observed. It was painted blue outside and white within, and was just
the size for two animals; and the Mole’s whole heart went out to it at
once, even though he did not yet fully understand its uses.
The Rat sculled smartly across and made fast. Then he held up his
forepaw as the Mole stepped gingerly down. “Lean on that!” he said.
“Now then, step lively!” and the Mole to his surprise and rapture found
himself actually seated in the stern of a real boat.
“This has been a wonderful day!” said he, as the Rat shoved off and
took to the sculls again. “Do you know, I’ve never been in a boat
before in all my life.”
“What?” cried the Rat, open-mouthed: “Never been in a—you never—well
I—what have you been doing, then?”
“Is it so nice as all that?” asked the Mole shyly, though he was quite
prepared to believe it as he leant back in his seat and surveyed the
cushions, the oars, the rowlocks, and all the fascinating fittings, and
felt the boat sway lightly under him.
“Nice? It’s the _only_ thing,” said the Water Rat solemnly, as he leant
forward for his stroke. “Believe me, my young friend, there is
_nothing_—absolute nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing
about in boats. Simply messing,” he went on dreamily:
“messing—about—in—boats; messing——”
“Look ahead, Rat!” cried the Mole suddenly.
It was too late. The boat struck the bank full tilt. The dreamer, the
joyous oarsman, lay on his back at the bottom of the boat, his heels in
the air.
“—about in boats—or _with_ boats,” the Rat went on composedly, picking
himself up with a pleasant laugh. “In or out of ’em, it doesn’t matter.
Nothing seems really to matter, that’s the charm of it. Whether you get
away, or whether you don’t; whether you arrive at your destination or
whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at
all, you’re always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and
when you’ve done it there’s always something else to do, and you can do
it if you like, but you’d much better not. Look here! If you’ve really
nothing else on hand this morning, supposing we drop down the river
together, and have a long day of it?”
The Mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness, spread his chest with a
sigh of full contentment, and leaned back blissfully into the soft
cushions. “_What_ a day I’m having!” he said. “Let us start at once!”
“Hold hard a minute, then!” said the Rat. He looped the painter through
a ring in his landing-stage, climbed up into his hole above, and after
a short interval reappeared staggering under a fat, wicker
luncheon-basket.
“Shove that under your feet,” he observed to the Mole, as he passed it
down into the boat. Then he untied the painter and took the sculls
again.
“What’s inside it?” asked the Mole, wriggling with curiosity.
“There’s cold chicken inside it,” replied the Rat briefly; “
coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssandwiches
pottedme atgingerbeerlemonadesodawater——”
“O stop, stop,” cried the Mole in ecstacies: “This is too much!”
“Do you really think so?” enquired the Rat seriously. “It’s only what I
always take on these little excursions; and the other animals are
always telling me that I’m a mean beast and cut it _very_ fine!”
The Mole never heard a word he was saying. Absorbed in the new life he
was entering upon, intoxicated with the sparkle, the ripple, the scents
and the sounds and the sunlight, he trailed a paw in the water and
dreamed long waking dreams. The Water Rat, like the good little fellow
he was, sculled steadily on and forebore to disturb him.
“I like your clothes awfully, old chap,” he remarked after some half an
hour or so had passed. “I’m going to get a black velvet smoking-suit
myself some day, as soon as I can afford it.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the Mole, pulling himself together with an
effort. “You must think me very rude; but all this is so new to me.
So—this—is—a—River!”
“_The_ River,” corrected the Rat.
“And you really live by the river? What a jolly life!”
“By it and with it and on it and in it,” said the Rat. “It’s brother
and sister to me, and aunts, and company, and food and drink, and
(naturally) washing. It’s my world, and I don’t want any other. What it
hasn’t got is not worth having, and what it doesn’t know is not worth
knowing. Lord! the times we’ve had together! Whether in winter or
summer, spring or autumn, it’s always got its fun and its excitements.
When the floods are on in February, and my cellars and basement are
brimming with drink that’s no good to me, and the brown water runs by
my best bedroom window; or again when it all drops away and, shows
patches of mud that smells like plum-cake, and the rushes and weed clog
the channels, and I can potter about dry shod over most of the bed of
it and find fresh food to eat, and things careless people have dropped
out of boats!”
“But isn’t it a bit dull at times?” the Mole ventured to ask. “Just you
and the river, and no one else to pass a word with?”
“No one else to—well, I mustn’t be hard on you,” said the Rat with
forbearance. “You’re new to it, and of course you don’t know. The bank
is so crowded nowadays that many people are moving away altogether: O
no, it isn’t what it used to be, at all. Otters, kingfishers,
dabchicks, moorhens, all of them about all day long and always wanting
you to _do_ something—as if a fellow had no business of his own to
attend to!”
“What lies over _there?_” asked the Mole, waving a paw towards a
background of woodland that darkly framed the water-meadows on one side
of the river.
“That? O, that’s just the Wild Wood,” said the Rat shortly. “We don’t
go there very much, we river-bankers.”
“Aren’t they—aren’t they very _nice_ people in there?” said the Mole, a
trifle nervously.
“W-e-ll,” replied the Rat, “let me see. The squirrels are all right.
_And_ the rabbits—some of ’em, but rabbits are a mixed lot. And then
there’s Badger, of course. He lives right in the heart of it; wouldn’t
live anywhere else, either, if you paid him to do it. Dear old Badger!
Nobody interferes with _him_. They’d better not,” he added
significantly.
“Why, who _should_ interfere with him?” asked the Mole.
“Well, of course—there—are others,” explained the Rat in a hesitating
sort of way.
“Weasels—and stoats—and foxes—and so on. They’re all right in a way—I’m
very good friends with them—pass the time of day when we meet, and all
that—but they break out sometimes, there’s no denying it, and
then—well, you can’t really trust them, and that’s the fact.”
The Mole knew well that it is quite against animal-etiquette to dwell
on possible trouble ahead, or even to allude to it; so he dropped the
subject.
“And beyond the Wild Wood again?” he asked: “Where it’s all blue and
dim, and one sees what may be hills or perhaps they mayn’t, and
something like the smoke of towns, or is it only cloud-drift?”
“Beyond the Wild Wood comes the Wide World,” said the Rat. “And that’s
something that doesn’t matter, either to you or me. I’ve never been
there, and I’m never going, nor you either, if you’ve got any sense at
all. Don’t ever refer to it again, please. Now then! Here’s our
backwater at last, where we’re going to lunch.”
Leaving the main stream, they now passed into what seemed at first
sight like a little land-locked lake. Green turf sloped down to either
edge, brown snaky tree-roots gleamed below the surface of the quiet
water, while ahead of them the silvery shoulder and foamy tumble of a
weir, arm-in-arm with a restless dripping mill-wheel, that held up in
its turn a grey-gabled mill-house, filled the air with a soothing
murmur of sound, dull and smothery, yet with little clear voices
speaking up cheerfully out of it at intervals. It was so very beautiful
that the Mole could only hold up both forepaws and gasp, “O my! O my! O
my!”
The Rat brought the boat alongside the bank, made her fast, helped the
still awkward Mole safely ashore, and swung out the luncheon-basket.
The Mole begged as a favour to be allowed to unpack it all by himself;
and the Rat was very pleased to indulge him, and to sprawl at full
length on the grass and rest, while his excited friend shook out the
table-cloth and spread it, took out all the mysterious packets one by
one and arranged their contents in due order, still gasping, “O my! O
my!” at each fresh revelation. When all was ready, the Rat said, “Now,
pitch in, old fellow!” and the Mole was indeed very glad to obey, for
he had started his spring-cleaning at a very early hour that morning,
as people _will_ do, and had not paused for bite or sup; and he had
been through a very great deal since that distant time which now seemed
so many days ago.
“What are you looking at?” said the Rat presently, when the edge of
their hunger was somewhat dulled, and the Mole’s eyes were able to
wander off the table-cloth a little.
“I am looking,” said the Mole, “at a streak of bubbles that I see
travelling along the surface of the water. That is a thing that strikes
me as funny.”
“Bubbles? Oho!” said the Rat, and chirruped cheerily in an inviting
sort of way.
A broad glistening muzzle showed itself above the edge of the bank, and
the Otter hauled himself out and shook the water from his coat.
“Greedy beggars!” he observed, making for the provender. “Why didn’t
you invite me, Ratty?”
“This was an impromptu affair,” explained the Rat. “By the way—my
friend Mr. Mole.”
“Proud, I’m sure,” said the Otter, and the two animals were friends
forthwith.
“Such a rumpus everywhere!” continued the Otter. “All the world seems
out on the river to-day. I came up this backwater to try and get a
moment’s peace, and then stumble upon you fellows!—At least—I beg
pardon—I don’t exactly mean that, you know.”
There was a rustle behind them, proceeding from a hedge wherein last
year’s leaves still clung thick, and a stripy head, with high shoulders
behind it, peered forth on them.
“Come on, old Badger!” shouted the Rat.
The Badger trotted forward a pace or two; then grunted, “H’m! Company,”
and turned his back and disappeared from view.
“That’s _just_ the sort of fellow he is!” observed the disappointed
Rat. “Simply hates Society! Now we shan’t see any more of him to-day.
Well, tell us, _who’s_ out on the river?”
“Toad’s out, for one,” replied the Otter. “In his brand-new wager-boat;
new togs, new everything!”
The two animals looked at each other and laughed.
“Once, it was nothing but sailing,” said the Rat, “Then he tired of
that and took to punting. Nothing would please him but to punt all day
and every day, and a nice mess he made of it. Last year it was
house-boating, and we all had to go and stay with him in his
house-boat, and pretend we liked it. He was going to spend the rest of
his life in a house-boat. It’s all the same, whatever he takes up; he
gets tired of it, and starts on something fresh.”
“Such a good fellow, too,” remarked the Otter reflectively: “But no
stability—especially in a boat!”
From where they sat they could get a glimpse of the main stream across
the island that separated them; and just then a wager-boat flashed into
view, the rower—a short, stout figure—splashing badly and rolling a
good deal, but working his hardest. The Rat stood up and hailed him,
but Toad—for it was he—shook his head and settled sternly to his work.
“He’ll be out of the boat in a minute if he rolls like that,” said the
Rat, sitting down again.
“Of course he will,” chuckled the Otter. “Did I ever tell you that good
story about Toad and the lock-keeper? It happened this way. Toad....”
An errant May-fly swerved unsteadily athwart the current in the
intoxicated fashion affected by young bloods of May-flies seeing life.
A swirl of water and a “cloop!” and the May-fly was visible no more.
Neither was the Otter.
The Mole looked down. The voice was still in his ears, but the turf
whereon he had sprawled was clearly vacant. Not an Otter to be seen, as
far as the distant horizon.
But again there was a streak of bubbles on the surface of the river.
The Rat hummed a tune, and the Mole recollected that animal-etiquette
forbade any sort of comment on the sudden disappearance of one’s
friends at any moment, for any reason or no reason whatever.
“Well, well,” said the Rat, “I suppose we ought to be moving. I wonder
which of us had better pack the luncheon-basket?” He did not speak as
if he was frightfully eager for the treat.
“O, please let me,” said the Mole. So, of course, the Rat let him.
Packing the basket was not quite such pleasant work as unpacking the
basket. It never is. But the Mole was bent on enjoying everything, and
although just when he had got the basket packed and strapped up tightly
he saw a plate staring up at him from the grass, and when the job had
been done again the Rat pointed out a fork which anybody ought to have
seen, and last of all, behold! the mustard pot, which he had been
sitting on without knowing it—still, somehow, the thing got finished at
last, without much loss of temper.
The afternoon sun was getting low as the Rat sculled gently homewards
in a dreamy mood, murmuring poetry-things over to himself, and not
paying much attention to Mole. But the Mole was very full of lunch, and
self-satisfaction, and pride, and already quite at home in a boat (so
he thought) and was getting a bit restless besides: and presently he
said, “Ratty! Please, _I_ want to row, now!”
The Rat shook his head with a smile. “Not yet, my young friend,” he
said—“wait till you’ve had a few lessons. It’s not so easy as it
looks.”
The Mole was quiet for a minute or two. But he began to feel more and
more jealous of Rat, sculling so strongly and so easily along, and his
pride began to whisper that he could do it every bit as well. He jumped
up and seized the sculls, so suddenly, that the Rat, who was gazing out
over the water and saying more poetry-things to himself, was taken by
surprise and fell backwards off his seat with his legs in the air for
the second time, while the triumphant Mole took his place and grabbed
the sculls with entire confidence.
“Stop it, you _silly_ ass!” cried the Rat, from the bottom of the boat.
“You can’t do it! You’ll have us over!”
The Mole flung his sculls back with a flourish, and made a great dig at
the water. He missed the surface altogether, his legs flew up above his
head, and he found himself lying on the top of the prostrate Rat.
Greatly alarmed, he made a grab at the side of the boat, and the next
moment—Sploosh!
Over went the boat, and he found himself struggling in the river.
O my, how cold the water was, and O, how _very_ wet it felt. How it
sang in his ears as he went down, down, down! How bright and welcome
the sun looked as he rose to the surface coughing and spluttering! How
black was his despair when he felt himself sinking again! Then a firm
paw gripped him by the back of his neck. It was the Rat, and he was
evidently laughing—the Mole could _feel_ him laughing, right down his
arm and through his paw, and so into his—the Mole’s—neck.
The Rat got hold of a scull and shoved it under the Mole’s arm; then he
did the same by the other side of him and, swimming behind, propelled
the helpless animal to shore, hauled him out, and set him down on the
bank, a squashy, pulpy lump of misery.
When the Rat had rubbed him down a bit, and wrung some of the wet out
of him, he said, “Now, then, old fellow! Trot up and down the
towing-path as hard as you can, till you’re warm and dry again, while I
dive for the luncheon-basket.”
So the dismal Mole, wet without and ashamed within, trotted about till
he was fairly dry, while the Rat plunged into the water again,
recovered the boat, righted her and made her fast, fetched his floating
property to shore by degrees, and finally dived successfully for the
luncheon-basket and struggled to land with it.
When all was ready for a start once more, the Mole, limp and dejected,
took his seat in the stern of the boat; and as they set off, he said in
a low voice, broken with emotion, “Ratty, my generous friend! I am very
sorry indeed for my foolish and ungrateful conduct. My heart quite
fails me when I think how I might have lost that beautiful
luncheon-basket. Indeed, I have been a complete ass, and I know it.
Will you overlook it this once and forgive me, and let things go on as
before?”
“That’s all right, bless you!” responded the Rat cheerily. “What’s a
little wet to a Water Rat? I’m more in the water than out of it most
days. Don’t you think any more about it; and, look here! I really think
you had better come and stop with me for a little time. It’s very plain
and rough, you know—not like Toad’s house at all—but you haven’t seen
that yet; still, I can make you comfortable. And I’ll teach you to row,
and to swim, and you’ll soon be as handy on the water as any of us.”
The Mole was so touched by his kind manner of speaking that he could
find no voice to answer him; and he had to brush away a tear or two
with the back of his paw. But the Rat kindly looked in another
direction, and presently the Mole’s spirits revived again, and he was
even able to give some straight back-talk to a couple of moorhens who
were sniggering to each other about his bedraggled appearance.
When they got home, the Rat made a bright fire in the parlour, and
planted the Mole in an arm-chair in front of it, having fetched down a
dressing-gown and slippers for him, and told him river stories till
supper-time. Very thrilling stories they were, too, to an
earth-dwelling animal like Mole. Stories about weirs, and sudden
floods, and leaping pike, and steamers that flung hard bottles—at least
bottles were certainly flung, and _from_ steamers, so presumably _by_
them; and about herons, and how particular they were whom they spoke
to; and about adventures down drains, and night-fishings with Otter, or
excursions far a-field with Badger. Supper was a most cheerful meal;
but very shortly afterwards a terribly sleepy Mole had to be escorted
upstairs by his considerate host, to the best bedroom, where he soon
laid his head on his pillow in great peace and contentment, knowing
that his new-found friend the River was lapping the sill of his window.
This day was only the first of many similar ones for the emancipated
Mole, each of them longer and full of interest as the ripening summer
moved onward. He learnt to swim and to row, and entered into the joy of
running water; and with his ear to the reed-stems he caught, at
intervals, something of what the wind went whispering so constantly
among them.
II.
THE OPEN ROAD
“Ratty,” said the Mole suddenly, one bright summer morning, “if you
please, I want to ask you a favour.”
The Rat was sitting on the river bank, singing a little song. He had
just composed it himself, so he was very taken up with it, and would
not pay proper attention to Mole or anything else. Since early morning
he had been swimming in the river, in company with his friends the
ducks. And when the ducks stood on their heads suddenly, as ducks will,
he would dive down and tickle their necks, just under where their chins
would be if ducks had chins, till they were forced to come to the
surface again in a hurry, spluttering and angry and shaking their
feathers at him, for it is impossible to say quite _all_ you feel when
your head is under water. At last they implored him to go away and
attend to his own affairs and leave them to mind theirs. So the Rat
went away, and sat on the river bank in the sun, and made up a song
about them, which he called
“DUCKS’ DITTY.”
All along the backwater,
Through the rushes tall,
Ducks are a-dabbling,
Up tails all!
Ducks’ tails, drakes’ tails,
Yellow feet a-quiver,
Yellow bills all out of sight
Busy in the river!
Slushy green undergrowth
Where the roach swim—
Here we keep our larder,
Cool and full and dim.
Everyone for what he likes!
_We_ like to be
Heads down, tails up,
Dabbling free!
High in the blue above
Swifts whirl and call—
_We_ are down a-dabbling
Uptails all!
“I don’t know that I think so _very_ much of that little song, Rat,”
observed the Mole cautiously. He was no poet himself and didn’t care
who knew it; and he had a candid nature.
“Nor don’t the ducks neither,” replied the Rat cheerfully. “They say,
‘_Why_ can’t fellows be allowed to do what they like _when_ they like
and _as_ they like, instead of other fellows sitting on banks and
watching them all the time and making remarks and poetry and things
about them? What _nonsense_ it all is!’ That’s what the ducks say.”
“So it is, so it is,” said the Mole, with great heartiness.
“No, it isn’t!” cried the Rat indignantly.
“Well then, it isn’t, it isn’t,” replied the Mole soothingly. “But what
I wanted to ask you was, won’t you take me to call on Mr. Toad? I’ve
heard so much about him, and I do so want to make his acquaintance.”
“Why, certainly,” said the good-natured Rat, jumping to his feet and
dismissing poetry from his mind for the day. “Get the boat out, and
we’ll paddle up there at once. It’s never the wrong time to call on
Toad. Early or late he’s always the same fellow. Always good-tempered,
always glad to see you, always sorry when you go!”
“He must be a very nice animal,” observed the Mole, as he got into the
boat and took the sculls, while the Rat settled himself comfortably in
the stern.
“He is indeed the best of animals,” replied Rat. “So simple, so
good-natured, and so affectionate. Perhaps he’s not very clever—we
can’t all be geniuses; and it may be that he is both boastful and
conceited. But he has got some great qualities, has Toady.”
Rounding a bend in the river, they came in sight of a handsome,
dignified old house of mellowed red brick, with well-kept lawns
reaching down to the water’s edge.
“There’s Toad Hall,” said the Rat; “and that creek on the left, where
the notice-board says, ‘Private. No landing allowed,’ leads to his
boat-house, where we’ll leave the boat. The stables are over there to
the right. That’s the banqueting-hall you’re looking at now—very old,
that is. Toad is rather rich, you know, and this is really one of the
nicest houses in these parts, though we never admit as much to Toad.”
They glided up the creek, and the Mole shipped his sculls as they
passed into the shadow of a large boat-house. Here they saw many
handsome boats, slung from the cross beams or hauled up on a slip, but
none in the water; and the place had an unused and a deserted air.
The Rat looked around him. “I understand,” said he. “Boating is played
out. He’s tired of it, and done with it. I wonder what new fad he has
taken up now? Come along and let’s look him up. We shall hear all about
it quite soon enough.”
They disembarked, and strolled across the gay flower-decked lawns in
search of Toad, whom they presently happened upon resting in a wicker
garden-chair, with a pre-occupied expression of face, and a large map
spread out on his knees.
“Hooray!” he cried, jumping up on seeing them, “this is splendid!” He
shook the paws of both of them warmly, never waiting for an
introduction to the Mole. “How _kind_ of you!” he went on, dancing
round them. “I was just going to send a boat down the river for you,
Ratty, with strict orders that you were to be fetched up here at once,
whatever you were doing. I want you badly—both of you. Now what will
you take? Come inside and have something! You don’t know how lucky it
is, your turning up just now!”
“Let’s sit quiet a bit, Toady!” said the Rat, throwing himself into an
easy chair, while the Mole took another by the side of him and made
some civil remark about Toad’s “delightful residence.”
“Finest house on the whole river,” cried Toad boisterously. “Or
anywhere else, for that matter,” he could not help adding.
Here the Rat nudged the Mole. Unfortunately the Toad saw him do it, and
turned very red. There was a moment’s painful silence. Then Toad burst
out laughing. “All right, Ratty,” he said. “It’s only my way, you know.
And it’s not such a very bad house, is it? You know you rather like it
yourself. Now, look here. Let’s be sensible. You are the very animals I
wanted. You’ve got to help me. It’s most important!”
“It’s about your rowing, I suppose,” said the Rat, with an innocent
air. “You’re getting on fairly well, though you splash a good bit
still. With a great deal of patience, and any quantity of coaching, you
may——”
“O, pooh! boating!” interrupted the Toad, in great disgust. “Silly
boyish amusement. I’ve given that up _long_ ago. Sheer waste of time,
that’s what it is. It makes me downright sorry to see you fellows, who
ought to know better, spending all your energies in that aimless
manner. No, I’ve discovered the real thing, the only genuine occupation
for a life time. I propose to devote the remainder of mine to it, and
can only regret the wasted years that lie behind me, squandered in
trivialities. Come with me, dear Ratty, and your amiable friend also,
if he will be so very good, just as far as the stable-yard, and you
shall see what you shall see!”
He led the way to the stable-yard accordingly, the Rat following with a
most mistrustful expression; and there, drawn out of the coach house
into the open, they saw a gipsy caravan, shining with newness, painted
a canary-yellow picked out with green, and red wheels.
“There you are!” cried the Toad, straddling and expanding himself.
“There’s real life for you, embodied in that little cart. The open
road, the dusty highway, the heath, the common, the hedgerows, the
rolling downs! Camps, villages, towns, cities! Here to-day, up and off
to somewhere else to-morrow! Travel, change, interest, excitement! The
whole world before you, and a horizon that’s always changing! And mind!
this is the very finest cart of its sort that was ever built, without
any exception. Come inside and look at the arrangements. Planned ’em
all myself, I did!”
The Mole was tremendously interested and excited, and followed him
eagerly up the steps and into the interior of the caravan. The Rat only
snorted and thrust his hands deep into his pockets, remaining where he
was.
It was indeed very compact and comfortable. Little sleeping bunks—a
little table that folded up against the wall—a cooking-stove, lockers,
bookshelves, a bird-cage with a bird in it; and pots, pans, jugs and
kettles of every size and variety.
“All complete!” said the Toad triumphantly, pulling open a locker. “You
see—biscuits, potted lobster, sardines—everything you can possibly
want. Soda-water here—baccy there—letter-paper, bacon, jam, cards and
dominoes—you’ll find,” he continued, as they descended the steps again,
“you’ll find that nothing what ever has been forgotten, when we make
our start this afternoon.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the Rat slowly, as he chewed a straw, “but
did I overhear you say something about ‘_we_,’ and ‘_start_,’ and
‘_this afternoon?_’”
“Now, you dear good old Ratty,” said Toad, imploringly, “don’t begin
talking in that stiff and sniffy sort of way, because you know you’ve
_got_ to come. I can’t possibly manage without you, so please consider
it settled, and don’t argue—it’s the one thing I can’t stand. You
surely don’t mean to stick to your dull fusty old river all your life,
and just live in a hole in a bank, and _boat?_ I want to show you the
world! I’m going to make an _animal_ of you, my boy!”
“I don’t care,” said the Rat, doggedly. “I’m not coming, and that’s
flat. And I _am_ going to stick to my old river, _and_ live in a hole,
_and_ boat, as I’ve always done. And what’s more, Mole’s going to stick
to me and do as I do, aren’t you, Mole?”
“Of course I am,” said the Mole, loyally. “I’ll always stick to you,
Rat, and what you say is to be—has got to be. All the same, it sounds
as if it might have been—well, rather fun, you know!” he added,
wistfully. Poor Mole! The Life Adventurous was so new a thing to him,
and so thrilling; and this fresh aspect of it was so tempting; and he
had fallen in love at first sight with the canary-coloured cart and all
its little fitments.
The Rat saw what was passing in his mind, and wavered. He hated
disappointing people, and he was fond of the Mole, and would do almost
anything to oblige him. Toad was watching both of them closely.
“Come along in, and have some lunch,” he said, diplomatically, “and
we’ll talk it over. We needn’t decide anything in a hurry. Of course,
_I_ don’t really care. I only want to give pleasure to you fellows.
‘Live for others!’ That’s my motto in life.”
During luncheon—which was excellent, of course, as everything at Toad
Hall always was—the Toad simply let himself go. Disregarding the Rat,
he proceeded to play upon the inexperienced Mole as on a harp.
Naturally a voluble animal, and always mastered by his imagination, he
painted the prospects of the trip and the joys of the open life and the
roadside in such glowing colours that the Mole could hardly sit in his
chair for excitement. Somehow, it soon seemed taken for granted by all
three of them that the trip was a settled thing; and the Rat, though
still unconvinced in his mind, allowed his good-nature to over-ride his
personal objections. He could not bear to disappoint his two friends,
who were already deep in schemes and anticipations, planning out each
day’s separate occupation for several weeks ahead.
When they were quite ready, the now triumphant Toad led his companions
to the paddock and set them to capture the old grey horse, who, without
having been consulted, and to his own extreme annoyance, had been told
off by Toad for the dustiest job in this dusty expedition. He frankly
preferred the paddock, and took a deal of catching. Meantime Toad
packed the lockers still tighter with necessaries, and hung nosebags,
nets of onions, bundles of hay, and baskets from the bottom of the
cart. At last the horse was caught and harnessed, and they set off, all
talking at once, each animal either trudging by the side of the cart or
sitting on the shaft, as the humour took him. It was a golden
afternoon. The smell of the dust they kicked up was rich and
satisfying; out of thick orchards on either side the road, birds called
and whistled to them cheerily; good-natured wayfarers, passing them,
gave them “Good-day,” or stopped to say nice things about their
beautiful cart; and rabbits, sitting at their front doors in the
hedgerows, held up their fore-paws, and said, “O my! O my! O my!”
Late in the evening, tired and happy and miles from home, they drew up
on a remote common far from habitations, turned the horse loose to
graze, and ate their simple supper sitting on the grass by the side of
the cart. Toad talked big about all he was going to do in the days to
come, while stars grew fuller and larger all around them, and a yellow
moon, appearing suddenly and silently from nowhere in particular, came
to keep them company and listen to their talk. At last they turned in
to their little bunks in the cart; and Toad, kicking out his legs,
sleepily said, “Well, good night, you fellows! This is the real life
for a gentleman! Talk about your old river!”
“I _don’t_ talk about my river,” replied the patient Rat. “You _know_ I
don’t, Toad. But I _think_ about it,” he added pathetically, in a lower
tone: “I think about it—all the time!”
The Mole reached out from under his blanket, felt for the Rat’s paw in
the darkness, and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll do whatever you like,
Ratty,” he whispered. “Shall we run away to-morrow morning, quite
early—_very_ early—and go back to our dear old hole on the river?”
“No, no, we’ll see it out,” whispered back the Rat. “Thanks awfully,
but I ought to stick by Toad till this trip is ended. It wouldn’t be
safe for him to be left to himself. It won’t take very long. His fads
never do. Good night!”
The end was indeed nearer than even the Rat suspected.
After so much open air and excitement the Toad slept very soundly, and
no amount of shaking could rouse him out of bed next morning. So the
Mole and Rat turned to, quietly and manfully, and while the Rat saw to
the horse, and lit a fire, and cleaned last night’s cups and platters,
and got things ready for breakfast, the Mole trudged off to the nearest
village, a long way off, for milk and eggs and various necessaries the
Toad had, of course, forgotten to provide. The hard work had all been
done, and the two animals were resting, thoroughly exhausted, by the
time Toad appeared on the scene, fresh and gay, remarking what a
pleasant easy life it was they were all leading now, after the cares
and worries and fatigues of housekeeping at home.
They had a pleasant ramble that day over grassy downs and along narrow
by-lanes, and camped as before, on a common, only this time the two
guests took care that Toad should do his fair share of work. In
consequence, when the time came for starting next morning, Toad was by
no means so rapturous about the simplicity of the primitive life, and
indeed attempted to resume his place in his bunk, whence he was hauled
by force. Their way lay, as before, across country by narrow lanes, and
it was not till the afternoon that they came out on the high-road,
their first high-road; and there disaster, fleet and unforeseen, sprang
out on them—disaster momentous indeed to their expedition, but simply
overwhelming in its effect on the after-career of Toad.
They were strolling along the high-road easily, the Mole by the horse’s
head, talking to him, since the horse had complained that he was being
frightfully left out of it, and nobody considered him in the least; the
Toad and the Water Rat walking behind the cart talking together—at
least Toad was talking, and Rat was saying at intervals, “Yes,
precisely; and what did _you_ say to _him?_”—and thinking all the time
of something very different, when far behind them they heard a faint
warning hum; like the drone of a distant bee. Glancing back, they saw a
small cloud of dust, with a dark centre of energy, advancing on them at
incredible speed, while from out the dust a faint “Poop-poop!” wailed
like an uneasy animal in pain. Hardly regarding it, they turned to
resume their conversation, when in an instant (as it seemed) the
peaceful scene was changed, and with a blast of wind and a whirl of
sound that made them jump for the nearest ditch, It was on them! The
“Poop-poop” rang with a brazen shout in their ears, they had a moment’s
glimpse of an interior of glittering plate-glass and rich morocco, and
the magnificent motor-car, immense, breath-snatching, passionate, with
its pilot tense and hugging his wheel, possessed all earth and air for
the fraction of a second, flung an enveloping cloud of dust that
blinded and enwrapped them utterly, and then dwindled to a speck in the
far distance, changed back into a droning bee once more.
The old grey horse, dreaming, as he plodded along, of his quiet
paddock, in a new raw situation such as this simply abandoned himself
to his natural emotions. Rearing, plunging, backing steadily, in spite
of all the Mole’s efforts at his head, and all the Mole’s lively
language directed at his better feelings, he drove the cart backwards
towards the deep ditch at the side of the road. It wavered an
instant—then there was a heartrending crash—and the canary-coloured
cart, their pride and their joy, lay on its side in the ditch, an
irredeemable wreck.
The Rat danced up and down in the road, simply transported with
passion. “You villains!” he shouted, shaking both fists, “You
scoundrels, you highwaymen, you—you—roadhogs!—I’ll have the law of you!
I’ll report you! I’ll take you through all the Courts!” His
home-sickness had quite slipped away from him, and for the moment he
was the skipper of the canary-coloured vessel driven on a shoal by the
reckless jockeying of rival mariners, and he was trying to recollect
all the fine and biting things he used to say to masters of
steam-launches when their wash, as they drove too near the bank, used
to flood his parlour-carpet at home.
Toad sat straight down in the middle of the dusty road, his legs
stretched out before him, and stared fixedly in the direction of the
disappearing motor-car. He breathed short, his face wore a placid
satisfied expression, and at intervals he faintly murmured “Poop-poop!”
The Mole was busy trying to quiet the horse, which he succeeded in
doing after a time. Then he went to look at the cart, on its side in
the ditch. It was indeed a sorry sight. Panels and windows smashed,
axles hopelessly bent, one wheel off, sardine-tins scattered over the
wide world, and the bird in the bird-cage sobbing pitifully and calling
to be let out.
The Rat came to help him, but their united efforts were not sufficient
to right the cart. “Hi! Toad!” they cried. “Come and bear a hand, can’t
you!”
The Toad never answered a word, or budged from his seat in the road; so
they went to see what was the matter with him. They found him in a sort
of a trance, a happy smile on his face, his eyes still fixed on the
dusty wake of their destroyer. At intervals he was still heard to
murmur “Poop-poop!”
The Rat shook him by the shoulder. “Are you coming to help us, Toad?”
he demanded sternly.
“Glorious, stirring sight!” murmured Toad, never offering to move. “The
poetry of motion! The _real_ way to travel! The _only_ way to travel!
Here to-day—in next week to-morrow! Villages skipped, towns and cities
jumped—always somebody else’s horizon! O bliss! O poop-poop! O my! O
my!”
“O _stop_ being an ass, Toad!” cried the Mole despairingly.
“And to think I never _knew!_” went on the Toad in a dreamy monotone.
“All those wasted years that lie behind me, I never knew, never even
_dreamt!_ But _now_—but now that I know, now that I fully realise! O
what a flowery track lies spread before me, henceforth! What
dust-clouds shall spring up behind me as I speed on my reckless way!
What carts I shall fling carelessly into the ditch in the wake of my
magnificent onset! Horrid little carts—common carts—canary-coloured
carts!”
“What are we to do with him?” asked the Mole of the Water Rat.
“Nothing at all,” replied the Rat firmly. “Because there is really
nothing to be done. You see, I know him from of old. He is now
possessed. He has got a new craze, and it always takes him that way, in
its first stage. He’ll continue like that for days now, like an animal
walking in a happy dream, quite useless for all practical purposes.
Never mind him. Let’s go and see what there is to be done about the
cart.”
A careful inspection showed them that, even if they succeeded in
righting it by themselves, the cart would travel no longer. The axles
were in a hopeless state, and the missing wheel was shattered into
pieces.
The Rat knotted the horse’s reins over his back and took him by the
head, carrying the bird cage and its hysterical occupant in the other
hand. “Come on!” he said grimly to the Mole. “It’s five or six miles to
the nearest town, and we shall just have to walk it. The sooner we make
a start the better.”
“But what about Toad?” asked the Mole anxiously, as they set off
together. “We can’t leave him here, sitting in the middle of the road
by himself, in the distracted state he’s in! It’s not safe. Supposing
another Thing were to come along?”
“O, _bother_ Toad,” said the Rat savagely; “I’ve done with him!”
They had not proceeded very far on their way, however, when there was a
pattering of feet behind them, and Toad caught them up and thrust a paw
inside the elbow of each of them; still breathing short and staring
into vacancy.
“Now, look here, Toad!” said the Rat sharply: “as soon as we get to the
town, you’ll have to go straight to the police-station, and see if they
know anything about that motor-car and who it belongs to, and lodge a
complaint against it. And then you’ll have to go to a blacksmith’s or a
wheelwright’s and arrange for the cart to be fetched and mended and put
to rights. It’ll take time, but it’s not quite a hopeless smash.
Meanwhile, the Mole and I will go to an inn and find comfortable rooms
where we can stay till the cart’s ready, and till your nerves have
recovered their shock.”
“Police-station! Complaint!” murmured Toad dreamily. “Me _complain_ of
that beautiful, that heavenly vision that has been vouchsafed me!
_Mend_ the _cart!_ I’ve done with carts for ever. I never want to see
the cart, or to hear of it, again. O, Ratty! You can’t think how
obliged I am to you for consenting to come on this trip! I wouldn’t
have gone without you, and then I might never have seen that—that swan,
that sunbeam, that thunderbolt! I might never have heard that
entrancing sound, or smelt that bewitching smell! I owe it all to you,
my best of friends!”
The Rat turned from him in despair. “You see what it is?” he said to
the Mole, addressing him across Toad’s head: “He’s quite hopeless. I
give it up—when we get to the town we’ll go to the railway station, and
with luck we may pick up a train there that’ll get us back to riverbank
to-night. And if ever you catch me going a-pleasuring with this
provoking animal again!”—He snorted, and during the rest of that weary
trudge addressed his remarks exclusively to Mole.
On reaching the town they went straight to the station and deposited
Toad in the second-class waiting-room, giving a porter twopence to keep
a strict eye on him. They then left the horse at an inn stable, and
gave what directions they could about the cart and its contents.
Eventually, a slow train having landed them at a station not very far
from Toad Hall, they escorted the spell-bound, sleep-walking Toad to
his door, put him inside it, and instructed his housekeeper to feed
him, undress him, and put him to bed. Then they got out their boat from
the boat-house, sculled down the river home, and at a very late hour
sat down to supper in their own cosy riverside parlour, to the Rat’s
great joy and contentment.
The following evening the Mole, who had risen late and taken things
very easy all day, was sitting on the bank fishing, when the Rat, who
had been looking up his friends and gossiping, came strolling along to
find him. “Heard the news?” he said. “There’s nothing else being talked
about, all along the river bank. Toad went up to Town by an early train
this morning. And he has ordered a large and very expensive motor-car.”
III.
THE WILD WOOD
The Mole had long wanted to make the acquaintance of the Badger. He
seemed, by all accounts, to be such an important personage and, though
rarely visible, to make his unseen influence felt by everybody about
the place. But whenever the Mole mentioned his wish to the Water Rat he
always found himself put off. “It’s all right,” the Rat would say.
“Badger’ll turn up some day or other—he’s always turning up—and then
I’ll introduce you. The best of fellows! But you must not only take him
_as_ you find him, but _when_ you find him.”
“Couldn’t you ask him here dinner or something?” said the Mole.
“He wouldn’t come,” replied the Rat simply. “Badger hates Society, and
invitations, and dinner, and all that sort of thing.”
“Well, then, supposing we go and call on _him?_” suggested the Mole.
“O, I’m sure he wouldn’t like that at _all_,” said the Rat, quite
alarmed. “He’s so very shy, he’d be sure to be offended. I’ve never
even ventured to call on him at his own home myself, though I know him
so well. Besides, we can’t. It’s quite out of the question, because he
lives in the very middle of the Wild Wood.”
“Well, supposing he does,” said the Mole. “You told me the Wild Wood
was all right, you know.”
“O, I know, I know, so it is,” replied the Rat evasively. “But I think
we won’t go there just now. Not _just_ yet. It’s a long way, and he
wouldn’t be at home at this time of year anyhow, and he’ll be coming
along some day, if you’ll wait quietly.”
The Mole had to be content with this. But the Badger never came along,
and every day brought its amusements, and it was not till summer was
long over, and cold and frost and miry ways kept them much indoors, and
the swollen river raced past outside their windows with a speed that
mocked at boating of any sort or kind, that he found his thoughts
dwelling again with much persistence on the solitary grey Badger, who
lived his own life by himself, in his hole in the middle of the Wild
Wood.
In the winter time the Rat slept a great deal, retiring early and
rising late. During his short day he sometimes scribbled poetry or did
other small domestic jobs about the house; and, of course, there were
always animals dropping in for a chat, and consequently there was a
good deal of story-telling and comparing notes on the past summer and
all its doings.
Such a rich chapter it had been, when one came to look back on it all!
With illustrations so numerous and so very highly coloured! The pageant
of the river bank had marched steadily along, unfolding itself in
scene-pictures that succeeded each other in stately procession. Purple
loosestrife arrived early, shaking luxuriant tangled locks along the
edge of the mirror whence its own face laughed back at it. Willow-herb,
tender and wistful, like a pink sunset cloud, was not slow to follow.
Comfrey, the purple hand-in-hand with the white, crept forth to take
its place in the line; and at last one morning the diffident and
delaying dog-rose stepped delicately on the stage, and one knew, as if
string-music had announced it in stately chords that strayed into a
gavotte, that June at last was here. One member of the company was
still awaited; the shepherd-boy for the nymphs to woo, the knight for
whom the ladies waited at the window, the prince that was to kiss the
sleeping summer back to life and love. But when meadow-sweet, debonair
and odorous in amber jerkin, moved graciously to his place in the
group, then the play was ready to begin.
And what a play it had been! Drowsy animals, snug in their holes while
wind and rain were battering at their doors, recalled still keen
mornings, an hour before sunrise, when the white mist, as yet
undispersed, clung closely along the surface of the water; then the
shock of the early plunge, the scamper along the bank, and the radiant
transformation of earth, air, and water, when suddenly the sun was with
them again, and grey was gold and colour was born and sprang out of the
earth once more. They recalled the languorous siesta of hot mid-day,
deep in green undergrowth, the sun striking through in tiny golden
shafts and spots; the boating and bathing of the afternoon, the rambles
along dusty lanes and through yellow cornfields; and the long, cool
evening at last, when so many threads were gathered up, so many
friendships rounded, and so many adventures planned for the morrow.
There was plenty to talk about on those short winter days when the
animals found themselves round the fire; still, the Mole had a good
deal of spare time on his hands, and so one afternoon, when the Rat in
his arm-chair before the blaze was alternately dozing and trying over
rhymes that wouldn’t fit, he formed the resolution to go out by himself
and explore the Wild Wood, and perhaps strike up an acquaintance with
Mr. Badger.
It was a cold still afternoon with a hard steely sky overhead, when he
slipped out of the warm parlour into the open air. The country lay bare
and entirely leafless around him, and he thought that he had never seen
so far and so intimately into the insides of things as on that winter
day when Nature was deep in her annual slumber and seemed to have
kicked the clothes off. Copses, dells, quarries and all hidden places,
which had been mysterious mines for exploration in leafy summer, now
exposed themselves and their secrets pathetically, and seemed to ask
him to overlook their shabby poverty for a while, till they could riot
in rich masquerade as before, and trick and entice him with the old
deceptions. It was pitiful in a way, and yet cheering—even
exhilarating. He was glad that he liked the country undecorated, hard,
and stripped of its finery. He had got down to the bare bones of it,
and they were fine and strong and simple. He did not want the warm
clover and the play of seeding grasses; the screens of quickset, the
billowy drapery of beech and elm seemed best away; and with great
cheerfulness of spirit he pushed on towards the Wild Wood, which lay
before him low and threatening, like a black reef in some still
southern sea.
There was nothing to alarm him at first entry. Twigs crackled under his
feet, logs tripped him, funguses on stumps resembled caricatures, and
startled him for the moment by their likeness to something familiar and
far away; but that was all fun, and exciting. It led him on, and he
penetrated to where the light was less, and trees crouched nearer and
nearer, and holes made ugly mouths at him on either side.
Everything was very still now. The dusk advanced on him steadily,
rapidly, gathering in behind and before; and the light seemed to be
draining away like flood-water.
Then the faces began.
It was over his shoulder, and indistinctly, that he first thought he
saw a face; a little evil wedge-shaped face, looking out at him from a
hole. When he turned and confronted it, the thing had vanished.
He quickened his pace, telling himself cheerfully not to begin
imagining things, or there would be simply no end to it. He passed
another hole, and another, and another; and then—yes!—no!—yes!
certainly a little narrow face, with hard eyes, had flashed up for an
instant from a hole, and was gone. He hesitated—braced himself up for
an effort and strode on. Then suddenly, and as if it had been so all
the time, every hole, far and near, and there were hundreds of them,
seemed to possess its face, coming and going rapidly, all fixing on him
glances of malice and hatred: all hard-eyed and evil and sharp.
If he could only get away from the holes in the banks, he thought,
there would be no more faces. He swung off the path and plunged into
the untrodden places of the wood.
Then the whistling began.
Very faint and shrill it was, and far behind him, when first he heard
it; but somehow it made him hurry forward. Then, still very faint and
shrill, it sounded far ahead of him, and made him hesitate and want to
go back. As he halted in indecision it broke out on either side, and
seemed to be caught up and passed on throughout the whole length of the
wood to its farthest limit. They were up and alert and ready,
evidently, whoever they were! And he—he was alone, and unarmed, and far
from any help; and the night was closing in.
Then the pattering began.
He thought it was only falling leaves at first, so slight and delicate
was the sound of it. Then as it grew it took a regular rhythm, and he
knew it for nothing else but the pat-pat-pat of little feet still a
very long way off. Was it in front or behind? It seemed to be first
one, and then the other, then both. It grew and it multiplied, till
from every quarter as he listened anxiously, leaning this way and that,
it seemed to be closing in on him. As he stood still to hearken, a
rabbit came running hard towards him through the trees. He waited,
expecting it to slacken pace, or to swerve from him into a different
course. Instead, the animal almost brushed him as it dashed past, his
face set and hard, his eyes staring. “Get out of this, you fool, get
out!” the Mole heard him mutter as he swung round a stump and
disappeared down a friendly burrow.
The pattering increased till it sounded like sudden hail on the dry
leaf-carpet spread around him. The whole wood seemed running now,
running hard, hunting, chasing, closing in round something or—somebody?
In panic, he began to run too, aimlessly, he knew not whither. He ran
up against things, he fell over things and into things, he darted under
things and dodged round things. At last he took refuge in the deep dark
hollow of an old beech tree, which offered shelter, concealment—perhaps
even safety, but who could tell? Anyhow, he was too tired to run any
further, and could only snuggle down into the dry leaves which had
drifted into the hollow and hope he was safe for a time. And as he lay
there panting and trembling, and listened to the whistlings and the
patterings outside, he knew it at last, in all its fullness, that dread
thing which other little dwellers in field and hedgerow had encountered
here, and known as their darkest moment—that thing which the Rat had
vainly tried to shield him from—the Terror of the Wild Wood!
Meantime the Rat, warm and comfortable, dozed by his fireside. His
paper of half-finished verses slipped from his knee, his head fell
back, his mouth opened, and he wandered by the verdant banks of
dream-rivers. Then a coal slipped, the fire crackled and sent up a
spurt of flame, and he woke with a start. Remembering what he had been
engaged upon, he reached down to the floor for his verses, pored over
them for a minute, and then looked round for the Mole to ask him if he
knew a good rhyme for something or other.
But the Mole was not there.
He listened for a time. The house seemed very quiet.
Then he called “Moly!” several times, and, receiving no answer, got up
and went out into the hall.
The Mole’s cap was missing from its accustomed peg. His goloshes, which
always lay by the umbrella-stand, were also gone.
The Rat left the house, and carefully examined the muddy surface of the
ground outside, hoping to find the Mole’s tracks. There they were, sure
enough. The goloshes were new, just bought for the winter, and the
pimples on their soles were fresh and sharp. He could see the imprints
of them in the mud, running along straight and purposeful, leading
direct to the Wild Wood.
The Rat looked very grave, and stood in deep thought for a minute or
two. Then he re-entered the house, strapped a belt round his waist,
shoved a brace of pistols into it, took up a stout cudgel that stood in
a corner of the hall, and set off for the Wild Wood at a smart pace.
It was already getting towards dusk when he reached the first fringe of
trees and plunged without hesitation into the wood, looking anxiously
on either side for any sign of his friend. Here and there wicked little
faces popped out of holes, but vanished immediately at sight of the
valorous animal, his pistols, and the great ugly cudgel in his grasp;
and the whistling and pattering, which he had heard quite plainly on
his first entry, died away and ceased, and all was very still. He made
his way manfully through the length of the wood, to its furthest edge;
then, forsaking all paths, he set himself to traverse it, laboriously
working over the whole ground, and all the time calling out cheerfully,
“Moly, Moly, Moly! Where are you? It’s me—it’s old Rat!”
He had patiently hunted through the wood for an hour or more, when at
last to his joy he heard a little answering cry. Guiding himself by the
sound, he made his way through the gathering darkness to the foot of an
old beech tree, with a hole in it, and from out of the hole came a
feeble voice, saying “Ratty! Is that really you?”
The Rat crept into the hollow, and there he found the Mole, exhausted
and still trembling. “O Rat!” he cried, “I’ve been so frightened, you
can’t think!”
“O, I quite understand,” said the Rat soothingly. “You shouldn’t really
have gone and done it, Mole. I did my best to keep you from it. We
river-bankers, we hardly ever come here by ourselves. If we have to
come, we come in couples, at least; then we’re generally all right.
Besides, there are a hundred things one has to know, which we
understand all about and you don’t, as yet. I mean passwords, and
signs, and sayings which have power and effect, and plants you carry in
your pocket, and verses you repeat, and dodges and tricks you practise;
all simple enough when you know them, but they’ve got to be known if
you’re small, or you’ll find yourself in trouble. Of course if you were
Badger or Otter, it would be quite another matter.”
“Surely the brave Mr. Toad wouldn’t mind coming here by himself, would
he?” inquired the Mole.
“Old Toad?” said the Rat, laughing heartily. “He wouldn’t show his face
here alone, not for a whole hatful of golden guineas, Toad wouldn’t.”
The Mole was greatly cheered by the sound of the Rat’s careless
laughter, as well as by the sight of his stick and his gleaming
pistols, and he stopped shivering and began to feel bolder and more
himself again.
“Now then,” said the Rat presently, “we really must pull ourselves
together and make a start for home while there’s still a little light
left. It will never do to spend the night here, you understand. Too
cold, for one thing.”
“Dear Ratty,” said the poor Mole, “I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’m simply
dead beat and that’s a solid fact. You _must_ let me rest here a while
longer, and get my strength back, if I’m to get home at all.”
“O, all right,” said the good-natured Rat, “rest away. It’s pretty
nearly pitch dark now, anyhow; and there ought to be a bit of a moon
later.”
So the Mole got well into the dry leaves and stretched himself out, and
presently dropped off into sleep, though of a broken and troubled sort;
while the Rat covered himself up, too, as best he might, for warmth,
and lay patiently waiting, with a pistol in his paw.
When at last the Mole woke up, much refreshed and in his usual spirits,
the Rat said, “Now then! I’ll just take a look outside and see if
everything’s quiet, and then we really must be off.”
He went to the entrance of their retreat and put his head out. Then the
Mole heard him saying quietly to himself, “Hullo! hullo! here—is—a—go!”
“What’s up, Ratty?” asked the Mole.
“_Snow_ is up,” replied the Rat briefly; “or rather, _down_. It’s
snowing hard.”
The Mole came and crouched beside him, and, looking out, saw the wood
that had been so dreadful to him in quite a changed aspect. Holes,
hollows, pools, pitfalls, and other black menaces to the wayfarer were
vanishing fast, and a