 They waited patiently for what seemed a very long time stamping in the snow to keep their feet warm. At last they heard the sound of slow shuffling footsteps approaching the door from the inside. It seemed, as the Mole remarked to the rat, like somebody 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 see 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. While 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 a small animal 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 end to tell the truth, decidedly shabby passage, into a sort of central hall, out of which they could dimly see other 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, violet kitchen. The floor was well-worn red brick, and on the wide hearth burned 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 accommodation for the socially 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 armchair 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, and 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, until 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 chink 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 until 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 mouthful. The Badger didn't mind that sort of thing, nor did he take any notice of elbows on the table, or everyone speaking at once. As he did not go into society himself, he had got the idea that these things belong 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 armchair 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 should have done so and so, or not have done something else. The mole began to feel very friendly towards him. When supper was finished at last, and each animal felt that his skin was now as tight as was tighter 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. And now this smash-up, only last week, 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 a good wage, and leave everything to him, he'd be all right, but no. He's convinced he's a heaven-born driver, and nobody can teach him anything, and all the rest follows. Inquired the Badger gloomily. Smashes are 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 poiled up, literally poiled 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, oh, 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. Aren'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. He's two friends assented, quite understanding his point. No animal, according to the rules of animal etiquette, is ever expected to do anything strenuous or heroic, or even moderately active during the off-season of winter. All are sleepy, some actually asleep. All are weather-bound, more or less, and all are resting from arduous days and nights during which every muscle in them has been severely tested, and every energy kept at full stretch. Very well then, continued the Badger. But when once the year has really turned, and the nights are shorter and halfway through them, up one rouses of fields 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, will take Toad seriously in hand, will stand no nonsense whatsoever, will bring him back to reason, by force if need be, will make him be a sensible Toad, will, you're a sleep rat. Not me, said the rat, waking up with a jerk. He's been asleep two or three times since supper, said the Mole, laughing. He himself was feeling quite wakeful, and even lively, though he didn't know why. The reason was, of course, that he, being naturally an underground animal by birth and breeding, the situation of Badger's house exactly suited him, and made him feel at home, while the rat, who slept every night in a bedroom, the windows of which opened on a breezy river, naturally felt the atmosphere still and oppressive. Well, it's time we were all in bed, said the Badger, getting up and fetching flat candlesticks. Come along, you two, and I'll show you your quarters, and take your time tomorrow morning, breakfast at any-o, 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 smelled beautifully of lavender. And the mole and the water rat, shaking off their garments in some 30 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. 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 fire now way to school. Mother would have us go, was the weather ever so, and of course we lost herself, sir, and Billy he got frightened. 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 everybody knows. Oh, he understands, said the rat, cutting himself some rashes from a side of bacon, while the mole dropped some eggs into a saucepan. And what's the weather like outside? He didn't serve me quite so much, he added. Oh, terrible bad, sir, terrible deep the snow is, said the young hedgehog. No getting out for the likes of you gentlemen today. Art, 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, on no account was he to be disturbed. This explanation, of course, was thoroughly understood by everyone present. The fact is, as already said forth, when you live a life of intense activity for six months of the year, and of comparative or actual somnolence for the next 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 knew well that Badger, having eaten a hearty breakfast, had retired to his study and settled himself in an armchair 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 year. The front doorbell clanged loudly, and the rat, who was very greasy with buttered toe, bent 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 would find you here all right, said the otter cheerfully. They were all in a great state of alarm along the riverbank when I arrived this morning. Rat never been at home all night, no role 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 a 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 and 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 in the grey sky, and a few rooks whirled over the trees, inspected and flapped off homewards with a disgusted expression, but I met no sensible being to ask the news of. About halfway 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 foreport on his shoulder. I had to cuff his head once or twice to get any scents 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, they said, how Mole, Mr. Rat's particular friend, was in a bad fix. How he'd lost his way, and they were up and hunting, and were chivvying him round and round. Then why didn't you do something, I asked? You may be blessed with brains, but there's 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. Were us, he merely said, do something, us rabbits. So I coughed him again and left him. There was nothing else to be done. At any rate, I'd learned something, and if I'd had the luck to meet any of them, I'd have learned something more, or they would. Weren't you at all 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'll give him nerves if any of them tried anything with me. Hear, Mole, frame me some slices of ham like the good little chapyard. I'm frightfully hungry, and I've got any amount to say to Ratty here. Haven't seen him for a age. So the good-natured Mole, having cut some slices of ham, set the hedgehogs to fry it and return to his own breakfast, while the otter and the rat, their heads together, eagerly torqued river-shop, which is long-shop and torqued 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 the Mole in his quiet, simple way, with kind inquiries for everyone. Must be getting home for lunch and 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, long hedgehogs stuffing themselves with fried ham makes me 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 someone with you to show you the way. You won't want any dinner to-day, I'll be bound. He gave them sixpence each 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 could 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 them, and don't bother about them. When you want to go up, up you go, and there things are waiting for you. The Badger simply beamed at him. That's exactly what I say, he replied. There's no security or peace or tranquility except underground. And then, if your ideas get larger, and you want to expand, well, dig in 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 suppose in a fire breaks out, where's Toad? Suppose tiles are blown off, or walls sink or crack, or windows get broken, where's Toad? Suppose the rooms are drafty, I hate to draft myself, where's Toad? No, up and out of doors is good enough to roam about and get ones 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 around 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 bared 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, 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 the 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 is now, there was a city, a city of people, you know. Here, where we're standing, they lived and walked and talked and slept and carried on their business. Here they stabled their arses 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 forever. But what has become of them all? Asked them all. Who can tell? said the badger. People come, they stay for a while, they flourish, they build, and they go. It's their way that we remain. There were badgers here, as 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 and last those people, said them all. When they went, continued the badger. 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 leveling 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 into help. Leaf mould rose and obliterated. Streams in their winter freshets brought sand and soil to clog and to cover. And in the 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, like 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. They didn'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. And I fancy you know something about them yourself by this time. I do indeed, said the mould 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 round tomorrow, 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 the 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 blindfolded. If there's a head that needs to be punched, you can comfortably rely upon me to punch it. Oh, you needn't fret, ratty, said the badger placidly. My passages run farther than you think, and I've got 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 should leave by one of my shortcuts. Meem time, meet 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 goodbye, 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 in 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 beeline for a distant style. Pausing their 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 knew that he would be home again among the things that he knew and liked, the mole saw clearly that he was an animal of tilled field and hedgerow, linked to the plowed 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. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Wind and the Willows by Kenneth Graham Read by Adrian Pretzelis Chapter 5 Dulcey Domem The sheep ran huddling together against the hurdles, blowing out thin nostrils and stamping with delicate forefeet. 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 which 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 that, said the Rat. At this season of the year there are 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 thin fall of powdery snow. Little was visible but squares of a dusty orange-red on either side of the street, where the fire-light or lamp-light of each cottage overflowed through the casements into the dark world without. Most of the low-lattice windows were innocent of blinds, and to look as in from the 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 at 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 birdcage, clearly silhouetted, every wire, perch and a pertinence 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 penciled 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 gap 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 sometime in the rattle of the doorlatch, the sudden firelight, and the sight of familiar things greeting us as long absent travelers from far overseas. They plodded along steadily and silently, each of them thinking his own thoughts. The moles ran a great deal on supper, as it was pitch dark, and it was all strange country to 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 intercommunications 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, enticing, 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 as 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 he had 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 come back! The rat was by this time very far ahead, 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 back for it tomorrow, whatever you found. But I danced up 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 is 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 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 parlor would be, and what a supper he meant to eat, never noticing his companion's silence and distressed 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 boarded 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 moment and rest. The snow has held off so far, and the best part of our journey is over. The Mole subsided funnily on a tree-stump, and tried to control himself, for he felt it surely coming. The sob he had fought with for 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 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 on Toad's beautiful hall, or Badge'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 smelled 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, oh dear, oh dear, and when you wouldn't turn back ratty, and I had to leave, 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, oh dear, oh dear, recollection brought fresh waves of sorrow, and sobs again took full charge of him, preventing further speech, the rat stares 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 our old chap, set off up the road again, over the toilsome way they had come, whatever are you going, 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'd better come along, for it will take some finding, and we shall want your nose. I'll 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 it's too dark, and the place is too far off, and the snow is coming, and oh 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 Riverbank and your supper. Hang Riverbank and supper too, said the rat heartily, I tell you, I'm going to find this place now if I stay up 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, endeavored to beguile his spirit's back, and make the weary way seem shorter. When at last it seemed to the rat 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 moles, of a faint sort of electric thrill that was passing down the animal's body. Instantly he disengaged himself, fell back apace, 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, 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 the 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 unearing 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 under foot, 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 forecourt. 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 in little runs that ended in earth heaps. On the walls hung wire baskets with ferns in them, alternating with brackets, carrying plaster statuary, Garibaldi, the infant Samuel and Queen Victoria, and other heroes of modern Italy. Down one side of the forecourt ran a skittle alley, with benches along it, and little wooden tables marked with rings that hinted at beer mugs. In the middle was a small round pond containing goldfish, and surrounded by a cockleshell border. Out of the centre of the pond rose a fanciful erection clothed in more cockleshells 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 around 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, and its long-sleeved narrow, meagre dimensions, its worn and shabby contents, and collapsed again on a hall chair, his nose in his paws. Oh, ratty! he cried in dismay. Why ever did I do it? Why did I bring you to this poor little place on a night like this, when you might have been at Riverbank 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 dullful self-repoaches. He was running here and there, opening doors, inspecting rooms and cupboards, and lighting lamps and candles, and sticking them up everywhere. What a cap and a little house this is! he called out cheerily, so compact, so well-planned. Everything here and everything in its place will make a jolly night of it. The first thing I want is a good fire. I'll see to that. I always know where to find things. So this is the palla, splendid. Your own idea, these 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 and 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 him fro with armfuls of fuel, soon had a cheerful blaze roaring up the chimney. He hailed the Mole to calm 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, what 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 in 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 draw. 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 tonight. No bread, groaned the mole, dolorously. No butter, no. No pâté de fourgoire, 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 pour, and another under each arm. Self-indulgent beggar you seem to be, Mole, he observed, denoy yourself nothing. This is really the jolliest little place I was ever in. Now, whatever did you pick up these 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 busies 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 his aunt, and how that was a wonderful find and a bargain, and this other thing was brought 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 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 forecourt 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. Now, after I say, one, two, three, where's your bell? Here, come on, do, we're all awaiting. 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 quite like old times to hear them again. Let's have a look at them, cried the rat, jumping down 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 forecourt, lit by the dim rays of a horn lantern, some eight or ten little field mice stood in a semi-circle, red-woisted comforters round their throats, their forepaws thrust deep into their pockets, their feet jingling for warmth. With bright beady eyes they glanced shyly at each other, sniggered 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 forthward their shrill little voices arose on the air, singing one of the old-time carols that their forefathers composed in the fields that were fallow and held by frost, or when snowbound in chimney corners, and handed down to be sung in the myery streets to lamplit windows at Yuletide. Carol, village as all this frosty tide, let your door 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 air one-half of the night was gone, sudden a star has led us on, raining bliss and benison, bliss tomorrow and more anon, joy for every morning. Good man Joseph toiled through the snow, saw the star or the stable low, Mary she might no 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 Noel? 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 side-long 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 born to their ears in a faint musical hum, the sound of distant bells ringing, a joyful and clangorious 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 oh ratty! he cried in despair, plumping down on a seat with tears impending, whatever are we doing, we've nothing to give them. Oh, 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 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 mined, no, a pound of that will do. See, you get buggings, for I won't have any other. No, only the best, if you can't get it there, try somewhere else. Yes, of course, homemade, no tin stuff. Well then, do the best you can. Finally, there was a chink of coin passing from poor to poor. 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 chill-blades 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 and appeared to be allowed to go out a caroling this year, but looked forward very shortly to winning the parental consent. The rat, meanwhile, was busily examining the label on one of the beer-bottles. I perceived this to be old Burton, he remarked approvingly. Sensible Mole, the very thing. Now we shall be able to Mole 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 that he had ever been cold in all his life. They act plays to 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, his lady-love had gone into a convent. Here, 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, the 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 water-men, applying the Role 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 general ship of rat, everyone was set to do something, or to fetch something. In a very few minutes supper was ready, and the Mole, as he took the head of the table in a sort of dream, saw a lately barren board, set thick with savoury comforts, saw his little friends' faces brighten and beam, as they fell too without delay, and then let himself loose, for he was famished indeed on the provinder so magically provided, thinking what a happy homecoming 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 chatted off at last very gratefully, 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 lantern had died away, Mole and rat kicked the fire up, drew their chairs in, brewed themselves a last night-cap of mulled ale, and discussed the events of the long day. At last the rat, with a tremendous yawn, said Mole, oh chap, I'm ready to drop. Sleepy is simply not the word. That your own bunk over on that side? Very well, then. Oh, 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 swath 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 fire-light that played or rested on the familiar and friendly things which had long been unconsciously a part of him, and now smiling received him back without ranker. 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 to 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 that 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. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Wind in the Willows, by Kenneth Graham. Read by Adrian Pretzelis. Chapter 6 Mr. Toad It was a bright morning in the early part of summer. The river had resumed its won'ted 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 vanishing, 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. When 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 afternoon or 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 tablecloth 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 say, rather? replied the Badger. Why toads' 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 armchair, as though he learned last night from a trustworthy sauce, 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 here, 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 there 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 no use or support to each other in case of sudden trouble or danger. They reached the carriage-drive of Toad Hall to find, as the Badger had anticipated, a shiny new motor-car of great size painted red Toad's favorite color standing in front of the house. As they neared the door it was flung open and Mr. Toad, a raid in goggles, cap, gaiters, an enormous overcoat came swaggering down the steps drawing on his gauntleted gloves. Hello, 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 jolly. His hearty accents faltered and fell away as he noted 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 today, he said. Mr. Toad has changed his mind. He will not require the car. Please understand 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. Shant replied the Toad with great spirit. What is the meaning of this gross outrage? I demand an instant explanation. Take them off him then, you Toad, 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 would come to this sooner or later, Toad. The Badger explained severely. You've disregarded all the warnings we've given you, and you've gone on squandering the money your father left you, and you're getting us animals a bad name in the district, but you're furious driving, and you're smashes, and you're roused 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 and never cure him. He'll say anything. They made themselves comfortable in arm-chairs and waited patiently. Through the closed doors 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-out 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 poor, a very limp and ejected Toad. His skin hung baggily about him, his legs wobbled, and his cheeks were furrowed by the tears so plentifully called full 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 is undertaken to give up motor cars entirely and forever, or he have his solemn promise to that effect. That's 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 more thing 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 suddenly 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 just tell me now in there? Oh yes, yes, in there, said the 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 the Toad emphatically. On the contrary, I faithfully promise that the very first motor-car I shall see, poop-poop, off I go in it. Told you so, didn't I? observed the rat to them all. 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 in his bedroom, while we arrange matters between ourselves. It's fair your own good, Toad, 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 have together, just as we used to, when you've quite got over all this painful attack of yours. We'll take great care of everything for you too, your well, Toad, said them all, 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 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. While his violent paroxysms possessed him, he would arrange his 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 stretched his legs in a long ramble around 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, oh, leave him alone, he wants nothing. Perhaps he'll be better at 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 most artful. There's sure to be something up. I know him. Well, now I must be off. How are you today, old chap? Inquired the rat cheerfully as he approached Toad's bedside. He had to wait some minutes for an answer. At last the feeble voice replied, Thank you very much, dear ratty, so good of you to inquire. But first tell me how you are yourself, and the excellent Moe. Oh, we're all right, replied the rat. Moe, he added, unconsciously, is going out for a run round with Badger. They'll be out till lunch in 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 in a fine morning like this. Dear kind rat, murmured Toad, how little you realize my condition, and how very far I am from jumping up now, if ever. But do not trouble about me. I hate to be a burden on 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 am glad to hear it's going to stop. And in weather like this and the bolt-in season just beginning, it's too bad of you, Toad. It isn't the trouble, we moined, but you're making us miss such an awful lot. Oh, I'm afraid it is the trouble you're mine, 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 feverly 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. Tomorrow, indeed, you may be saying to yourself, oh, 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 will 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, all doctors either for that matter. Still one must grasp the slightest straw, and, by the way, while you're 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? Oh, he must be very 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. That's best to be on the safe side, he said on reflection. I've known Toad he fancy himself frightfully bad before, without slight 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 will 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 as 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 Tood a window which formed such a feature of his bedroom, he scrambled out, slid lightly to the ground, and, taking the opposite direction to the rat, marched off lightheartedly, whistling a merry tune. It was a gloomy luncheon for Rat when the Badger and the Mole at last returned, and he had to face them at the 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, two 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 thinks 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 century 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 over brute force, and brain came out on the top as it's bound to too. Poor old ratty, my. Ha, 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 halfway 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 in-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 in 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 in-yard. There cannot be any harm, he said to himself, in my only looking at it. The car stood in the middle of the yard, quite unattended, the stable helps and the 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 crank 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, 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 spared he knew not wither, fulfilling his instincts, living his hours 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 who we see cowering 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. Clark, will you tell us please what is the very stiffest penalty we can impose for each of D's 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, 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've 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 around twenty years to be on the safe side, concluded the clerk. An excellent suggestion, said the Chairman approvingly. Prisoner, pile 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 whatsoever, 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 courthouse, shrieking, praying, protesting across the marketplace where the playful populace all was as severe upon detected crime as they were sympathetic and helpful, when one was 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 derived from the sight of a gentleman in difficulties, across the hollow-sounding drawbridge below the spiky Port Cullis, under the frowning archway of the grim old castle whose ancient towers soared high overhead, past guard rooms full of grinning soldiery off duty, past centuries who coughed in a horrid sarcastic way, because that is as much as a century on his post can dare to do to show his contempt and abhorrence of crime, up a time-worn winding stair, past men-at-arms in casket and corset of steel, darting threatening looks through the visits across courtyards where mastiffs strained at their leash and poured the air to get at him, past ancient waters their halberds leaned against the wall, dozing over a pasty and a flagon of brown ale, on and on, past the rack chamber and the thumb-screw room, past the turning that led to the private scaffold, until they reached the door of the grimest dungeon that lay in the heart of the innermost keep. There at last they paused where an ancient jailer sat fingering a bunch of mighty keys. Odds, body-kinds, said the sergeant of police, taking off his helmet and wiping his forehead, roused the old loon, and took 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 the well-grey beard should ought untoward befall thy old hedge-lancer for his and a moraine on both of them. The jailer 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. End of Chapter 6