The Wind in the Willows
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