The Wind in the Willows
this was planned, and how that was thought out, and how this was got
through a windfall from an aunt, and that was a wonderful find and a
bargain, and this other thing was bought out of laborious savings and a
certain amount of “going without.” His spirits finally quite restored,
he must needs go and caress his possessions, and take a lamp and show
off their points to his visitor and expatiate on them, quite forgetful
of the supper they both so much needed; Rat, who was desperately hungry
but strove to conceal it, nodding seriously, examining with a puckered
brow, and saying, “wonderful,” and “most remarkable,” at intervals,
when the chance for an observation was given him.
At last the Rat succeeded in decoying him to the table, and had just
got seriously to work with the sardine-opener when sounds were heard
from the fore-court without—sounds like the scuffling of small feet in
the gravel and a confused murmur of tiny voices, while broken sentences
reached them—“Now, all in a line—hold the lantern up a bit, Tommy—clear
your throats first—no coughing after I say one, two, three.—Where’s
young Bill?—Here, come on, do, we’re all a-waiting——”
“What’s up?” inquired the Rat, pausing in his labours.
“I think it must be the field-mice,” replied the Mole, with a touch of
pride in his manner. “They go round carol-singing regularly at this
time of the year. They’re quite an institution in these parts. And they
never pass me over—they come to Mole End last of all; and I used to
give them hot drinks, and supper too sometimes, when I could afford it.
It will be like old times to hear them again.”
“Let’s have a look at them!” cried the Rat, jumping up and running to
the door.
It was a pretty sight, and a seasonable one, that met their eyes when
they flung the door open. In the fore-court, lit by the dim rays of a
horn lantern, some eight or ten little fieldmice stood in a semicircle,
red worsted comforters round their throats, their fore-paws thrust deep
into their pockets, their feet jigging for warmth. With bright beady
eyes they glanced shyly at each other, sniggering a little, sniffing
and applying coat-sleeves a good deal. As the door opened, one of the
elder ones that carried the lantern was just saying, “Now then, one,
two, three!” and forthwith their shrill little voices uprose on the
air, singing one of the old-time carols that their forefathers composed
in fields that were fallow and held by frost, or when snow-bound in
chimney corners, and handed down to be sung in the miry street to
lamp-lit windows at Yule-time.
CAROL
Villagers all, this frosty tide,
Let your doors swing open wide,
Though wind may follow, and snow beside,
Yet draw us in by your fire to bide;
Joy shall be yours in the morning!
Here we stand in the cold and the sleet,
Blowing fingers and stamping feet,
Come from far away you to greet—
You by the fire and we in the street—
Bidding you joy in the morning!
For ere one half of the night was gone,
Sudden a star has led us on,
Raining bliss and benison—
Bliss to-morrow and more anon,
Joy for every morning!
Goodman Joseph toiled through the snow—
Saw the star o’er a stable low;
Mary she might not further go—
Welcome thatch, and litter below!
Joy was hers in the morning!
And then they heard the angels tell
“Who were the first to cry _Nowell?_
Animals all, as it befell,
In the stable where they did dwell!
Joy shall be theirs in the morning!”
The voices ceased, the singers, bashful but smiling, exchanged sidelong
glances, and silence succeeded—but for a moment only. Then, from up
above and far away, down the tunnel they had so lately travelled was
borne to their ears in a faint musical hum the sound of distant bells
ringing a joyful and clangorous peal.
“Very well sung, boys!” cried the Rat heartily. “And now come along in,
all of you, and warm yourselves by the fire, and have something hot!”
“Yes, come along, field-mice,” cried the Mole eagerly. “This is quite
like old times! Shut the door after you. Pull up that settle to the
fire. Now, you just wait a minute, while we—O, Ratty!” he cried in
despair, plumping down on a seat, with tears impending. “Whatever are
we doing? We’ve nothing to give them!”
“You leave all that to me,” said the masterful Rat. “Here, you with the
lantern! Come over this way. I want to talk to you. Now, tell me, are
there any shops open at this hour of the night?”
“Why, certainly, sir,” replied the field-mouse respectfully. “At this
time of the year our shops keep open to all sorts of hours.”
“Then look here!” said the Rat. “You go off at once, you and your
lantern, and you get me——”
Here much muttered conversation ensued, and the Mole only heard bits of
it, such as—“Fresh, mind!—no, a pound of that will do—see you get
Buggins’s, for I won’t have any other—no, only the best—if you can’t
get it there, try somewhere else—yes, of course, home-made, no tinned
stuff—well then, do the best you can!” Finally, there was a chink of
coin passing from paw to paw, the field-mouse was provided with an
ample basket for his purchases, and off he hurried, he and his lantern.
The rest of the field-mice, perched in a row on the settle, their small
legs swinging, gave themselves up to enjoyment of the fire, and toasted
their chilblains till they tingled; while the Mole, failing to draw
them into easy conversation, plunged into family history and made each
of them recite the names of his numerous brothers, who were too young,
it appeared, to be allowed to go out a-carolling this year, but looked
forward very shortly to winning the parental consent.
The Rat, meanwhile, was busy examining the label on one of the
beer-bottles. “I perceive this to be Old Burton,” he remarked
approvingly. “_Sensible_ Mole! The very thing! Now we shall be able to
mull some ale! Get the things ready, Mole, while I draw the corks.”
It did not take long to prepare the brew and thrust the tin heater well
into the red heart of the fire; and soon every field-mouse was sipping
and coughing and choking (for a little mulled ale goes a long way) and
wiping his eyes and laughing and forgetting he had ever been cold in
all his life.
“They act plays too, these fellows,” the Mole explained to the Rat.
“Make them up all by themselves, and act them afterwards. And very well
they do it, too! They gave us a capital one last year, about a
field-mouse who was captured at sea by a Barbary corsair, and made to
row in a galley; and when he escaped and got home again, his lady-love
had gone into a convent. Here, _you!_ You were in it, I remember. Get
up and recite a bit.”
The field-mouse addressed got up on his legs, giggled shyly, looked
round the room, and remained absolutely tongue-tied. His comrades
cheered him on, Mole coaxed and encouraged him, and the Rat went so far
as to take him by the shoulders and shake him; but nothing could
overcome his stage-fright. They were all busily engaged on him like
watermen applying the Royal Humane Society’s regulations to a case of
long submersion, when the latch clicked, the door opened, and the
field-mouse with the lantern reappeared, staggering under the weight of
his basket.
There was no more talk of play-acting once the very real and solid
contents of the basket had been tumbled out on the table. Under the
generalship of Rat, everybody was set to do something or to fetch
something. In a very few minutes supper was ready, and Mole, as he took
the head of the table in a sort of a dream, saw a lately barren board
set thick with savoury comforts; saw his little friends’ faces brighten
and beam as they fell to without delay; and then let himself loose—for
he was famished indeed—on the provender so magically provided, thinking
what a happy home-coming this had turned out, after all. As they ate,
they talked of old times, and the field-mice gave him the local gossip
up to date, and answered as well as they could the hundred questions he
had to ask them. The Rat said little or nothing, only taking care that
each guest had what he wanted, and plenty of it, and that Mole had no
trouble or anxiety about anything.
They clattered off at last, very grateful and showering wishes of the
season, with their jacket pockets stuffed with remembrances for the
small brothers and sisters at home. When the door had closed on the
last of them and the chink of the lanterns had died away, Mole and Rat
kicked the fire up, drew their chairs in, brewed themselves a last
nightcap of mulled ale, and discussed the events of the long day. At
last the Rat, with a tremendous yawn, said, “Mole, old chap, I’m ready
to drop. Sleepy is simply not the word. That your own bunk over on that
side? Very well, then, I’ll take this. What a ripping little house this
is! Everything so handy!”
He clambered into his bunk and rolled himself well up in the blankets,
and slumber gathered him forthwith, as a swathe of barley is folded
into the arms of the reaping machine.
The weary Mole also was glad to turn in without delay, and soon had his
head on his pillow, in great joy and contentment. But ere he closed his
eyes he let them wander round his old room, mellow in the glow of the
firelight that played or rested on familiar and friendly things which
had long been unconsciously a part of him, and now smilingly received
him back, without rancour. He was now in just the frame of mind that
the tactful Rat had quietly worked to bring about in him. He saw
clearly how plain and simple—how narrow, even—it all was; but clearly,
too, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such
anchorage in one’s existence. He did not at all want to abandon the new
life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all
they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all
too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew he
must return to the larger stage. But it was good to think he had this
to come back to; this place which was all his own, these things which
were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the
same simple welcome.
VI.
MR. TOAD
It was a bright morning in the early part of summer; the river had
resumed its wonted banks and its accustomed pace, and a hot sun seemed
to be pulling everything green and bushy and spiky up out of the earth
towards him, as if by strings. The Mole and the Water Rat had been up
since dawn, very busy on matters connected with boats and the opening
of the boating season; painting and varnishing, mending paddles,
repairing cushions, hunting for missing boat-hooks, and so on; and were
finishing breakfast in their little parlour and eagerly discussing
their plans for the day, when a heavy knock sounded at the door.
“Bother!” said the Rat, all over egg. “See who it is, Mole, like a good
chap, since you’ve finished.”
The Mole went to attend the summons, and the Rat heard him utter a cry
of surprise. Then he flung the parlour door open, and announced with
much importance, “Mr. Badger!”
This was a wonderful thing, indeed, that the Badger should pay a formal
call on them, or indeed on anybody. He generally had to be caught, if
you wanted him badly, as he slipped quietly along a hedgerow of an
early morning or a late evening, or else hunted up in his own house in
the middle of the Wood, which was a serious undertaking.
The Badger strode heavily into the room, and stood looking at the two
animals with an expression full of seriousness. The Rat let his
egg-spoon fall on the table-cloth, and sat open-mouthed.
“The hour has come!” said the Badger at last with great solemnity.
“What hour?” asked the Rat uneasily, glancing at the clock on the
mantelpiece.
“_Whose_ hour, you should rather say,” replied the Badger. “Why, Toad’s