This is a LibriVox recording. For more information, and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Wind in the Willows, by Kenneth Graham, read by Adrian Pretzelis. Chapter 7 The Piper at the Gates of Dorne The Willow Wren was twittering his thin little song, having hidden himself in the dark selvedge of the riverbank. Though it was past ten o'clock at night, the sky still clung to and retained some lingering skirts of light from the departed day, and the sullen heat of the torrid afternoon broke up and rolled away at the dispensing touch of the cool fingers of the short Midsummer night. Mole lay stretched on the bank, still panting from the stress of the fierce day that had been cloudless from Dorne to late sunset, and waited for his friend to return. He had been on the river with some companions, leaving the water-rat free to keep an engagement of long-standing with Otter, and he had come back to find the house dark and deserted, and no sign of rat who was doubtless keeping it up late with his old comrade. It was still too hot to think of staying indoors, so he lay on some cool dock-leaves, and thought over the past day in its doings, and how very good they all had been. The rat's light footfall was presently heard approaching over the parched grass. Oh, the blessed coolness, he said, and sat down, gazing thoughtfully into the river, silent and preoccupied. You stayed to supper, I suppose, said the Mole presently. Simply had to, said the rat. They wouldn't hear of my going before. You know how kind they always are, and they made things as jolly for me as ever they could, right up to the moment I left. But I felt a brute, all the time, as it was clear to me that they were very unhappy, though they tried to hide it. Mole, I'm afraid they're in trouble. Little Portley is missing again, and you know what a lot his father thinks of him, though he never says much about it. What? That child? said the Mole lightly. Well, suppose he is, why worry about it? He's always straying off and getting lost, and turning up again. He's so adventurous. But no harm ever happens to him. Everybody hereabouts knows him, and likes him, just as they do, old Otter, and you may be sure some animal or other will come across him and bring him back again, all right. Why, we found him ourselves, miles from home, and quite self-possessed and cheerful. Yes, but this time it's more serious, said the rat gravely. He's been missing for some days now, and the otters have hunted everywhere, high and low, without finding the slightest trace. And they've asked every animal, too, for miles around, and no one knows anything about him, otters evidently more anxious than he'll admit. I got out of him that young Portley hadn't learned to swim very well yet, and I can see he's thinking of the weir. There's a lot of water coming down still considering the time of year, and the place always has a fascination for the child. And then there are, well, traps, and things, you know. Otter's not the fellow to be nervous about a son of his before its time, and now he is nervous. When I left he came out with me, said he wanted some air, and talked about stretching his legs, but I could see it wasn't that. So I drew him out and pumped him, and got it all from him at last. He was going to spend the night watching by the ford. You know the place where the old ford used to be, in bygone days before they built the bridge. I know it well, said them all, but why should Otter choose to watch there? Well, it seems that it was there he gave Portley his first swimming lesson, continued the rant, from that shallow gravelly spit near the bank. And it was there he used to teach him fishing, and there young Portley caught his first fish, of which he was so very proud. The child loved the spot, and Otter thinks that if he came wandering back from wherever he is, if he is anywhere by this time, poor little chap, he might make for the ford he was so fond of, or if he came across it he'd remember it well, and stop there and play perhaps. So Otter goes there every night and watches on the chance, you know, just on the chance. They were silent for a time, both thinking of the same thing. The lonely heart-sore animal crouched by the ford, watching and waiting the long night through on the chance. Well, well, said the rat presently, I suppose we ought to be thinking about turning in. But he never offered to move. Rat, said them all, I simply can't go and turn in and go to sleep and do nothing, even though there doesn't seem to be anything to be done. We'll get the boat out and paddle upstream. The moon will be up in an hour or so, and then we will search as well as we can. Anyhow, it will be better than going to bed and doing nothing. Just what I was thinking of myself, said the rat. It's not the sort of night for a bed, anyhow, and daybreak is not so very far off, and then we may pick up some news of him from early raisers as we go along. They got the boat out, and the rat took the skulls, paddling with caution. Out in midstream there was a clear, narrow track that faintly reflected the sky, but wherever shadow fell on the water from bank, bush or tree, they were as solid to all appearance as the banks themselves, and the mole had to steer with judgment accordingly. Dark and deserted as it was the night was full of small noises, song and chatter and rustling, telling of the busy little population who were up and about, plying their trades and vocations through the night, till the sunshine should fall on them at last and send them off to their well-earned repose. The water's own noises, too, were more apparent than by day. It's gurglings and clops, more unexpected and nearer at hand, and constantly they started at what seemed to be a sudden clear call from an actual articulate voice. The line of the horizon was clear and hard against the sky, and in one particular quarter it showed black against a silvery-climbing phosphorescence that grew and grew. At last over the rim of the waiting earth the moon lifted with slow majesty till it swung clear of the horizon and rode off, free of moorings. And once more they began to see surfaces, meadows widespread and quiet gardens, and the river itself from bank to bank all softly disclosed, all washed clean of mystery and terror, all radiant again as by day, but with a difference that was tremendous. Their old haunts greeted them again in other raiment, as if they had slipped away and put on this pure new apparel and come quietly back, smiling as they shyly waited to see if they would be recognized again under it. Fastening their boat to a willow, the friends landed in this silent silver kingdom, and patiently explored the hedges, the hollow trees, the tunnels and their little culverts, the ditches and dry waterways. Embarking again and crossing over, they worked their way up the stream in this manner, while the moon, serene and detached in a cloudless sky, did what she could, though so far off, to help them in their quest, till her hour came and she sank earthward reluctantly and left them, and mystery once more held field and river. Water change began slowly to declare itself, the horizon became clearer, field and tree came more into sight, and somehow with a different look. The mystery began to drop away from them, a bird piped suddenly and was still, and a light breeze sprang up and set the reeds and bulrushes rustling. Rat, who was in the stern of the boat while Mole sculled, sat up suddenly and listened with a passionate intentness. Mole, who with gentle strokes was just keeping the boat moving while he scanned the banks with care, looked at him with curiosity. It's gone, sighed the Rat, sinking back in his seat again. So beautiful and strange and new, since it was to end so soon I had almost wished I'd never heard it, for it has roused a longing in me that is pain and nothing seems worthwhile, but just to hear that soon once more and go on listening to it forever. No, there it is again, he cried, alert once more. Entranced, he was silent for a long space spellbound. Now it passes on and I begin to lose it, he said presently. Oh, Mole, the beauty of it, the merry bubble and joy, the thin, clear, happy call of the distant piping. Such music I never dreamed of, and the call in it is stronger even than the music is sweet. Row on, Mole, row, for the music and the call must be for us. The Mole, greatly wondering, obeyed. I hear nothing myself, he said, but the wind playing in the reeds and rushes and osiers. The rat never answered. If indeed he heard, wrapped, transported, trembling, he was possessed in all his senses by this new divine thing that caught up his helpless soul and swung and dandled it, a powerless but happy infant in a strong sustaining grasp. In silence Mole rowed steadily, and soon they came to a point where the river divided, a long backwater branching off to one side. With a slight movement of his head, rat, who had long dropped the rudder-lines, directed the rower to take the backwater. The creeping tide of light gained and gained, and now they could see the colour of the flowers that gemmed the water's edge. Clearer and nearer still, cried the rat joyously, No, you must surely hear it, ah, at last, I see you do!  He saw the tears in his comrades' cheeks and bowed his head and understood. For a space they hung there, brushed by the purple loose strife that fringed the bank. Then the clear, imperious summons that marched hand in hand with the intoxicating melody imposed its will on Mole, and mechanically he bent his oars again. And the light grew steadily stronger, but no birds sang as they were wont to do with the approach of dawn. But for the heavenly music all was marvelously still. On either side of them as they glided onwards, the rich meadow-grass seemed that morning of a freshness and greenness unsurpassable. Never had they noticed the roses so vivid, the willow herbs so riotous, the meadow-sweet so odorous and pervading. Then the murmur of the approaching weir began to hold the air, and they felt a consciousness that they were nearing the end, whatever it might be, that surely awaited their expedition. A wide half-circle of foam and glinting light and shining shoulders of green water, the great weir closed the backwater from bank to bank, troubled all the quiet surface with twirling eddies and floating foam-streaks, and deadened all other sound with its solemn and soothing rumble. In midmost of the stream, embraced in the weir's shimmering arm-spread, a small island lay anchored, fringed close with willow and silver perch and alder. Reserved, shy, but full of significance, it hid whatever it might hold behind a veil, keeping it till the hour should come, and, with the hour, those who were called and chosen. Slowly, but with no doubt or hesitation, whatever, and in something of a solemn expectancy, the two animals passed through the broken tumultuous water, and moored their boat at the flowery margin of the island. In silence they landed, and pushed through the blossom-insented herbage and undergrowth that led to the level ground, till they stood on a little lawn of a marvellous green, set round with nature's own orchard-trees, crab-apple, wild cherry, and sloe. This is the place of my song-dream, the place the music played to me, whispered the rat, as if in a trance. Here, in this holy place, here, if anywhere, surely we shall find him. Then suddenly the mole felt a great awe fall upon him, an awe that turned his muscles to water, bowed his head, and rooted his feet to the ground. It was no panic-terror. Indeed, he felt wonderfully at peace and happy, but it was an awe that smote and held him, and without seeing he knew it could only mean that some august presence was very, very near. With difficulty he turned to look for his friend, and saw him at his side cowed, stricken, and trembling violently. And still there was utter silence in the populous bird-haunted branches around them, and still the light grew and grew. Perhaps he would never have dared to raise his eyes, but that, though the piping was now hushed, the call and the summons seemed dominant and imperious. He might not refuse were death himself waiting to strike him instantly once he had looked with mortal eye on things rightly kept hidden. Trembling, he obeyed, and raised his humble head, and then, in that utter clearness of the imminent dawn, while nature flushed with fullness of incredible colour, seemed to hold her breath for the event. He looked in the very eyes of the friend and helper, saw the backward sweep of the curved horns gleaming in the glowing daylight, saw the stern hooked nose between the kindly eyes, though were looking down on them humorously, while the bearded mouth broke into a half smile at the corners, saw the rippling muscles on the arm that lay across the broad chest, the long supple hand still holding the panpipes, only just fallen away from the parted lips, saw the splendid curves of the shaggy limbs disposed in majestic ease on the sword, saw, last of all, nestling between his very hooves, sleeping soundly, an entire peace and contentment, the little round, podgy, childish form of the baby otter. All this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky, and still as he looked, he lived, and still as he lived, he wondered. Rat, he found breath to whisper, shaking. Are you afraid? Afraid, murmured the rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love. Afraid of him? Oh, never, never, and yet, and yet, oh, Mole, I am afraid. Then the two animals crouching to the earth bowed their heads and did worship. Sudden and magnificent, the sun's broad golden disc showed itself over the horizon facing them, and the first rays shooting across the level water meadows took the animals fall in the eyes and dazzled them. When they were able to look once more, the vision has vanished, and the air was full of the carol of birds that hailed the dawn.  For this is the last best gift that the kindly demigod is careful to bestow on those to whom he has revealed himself in their helping. The gift of forgetfulness, lest the awful remembrance should remain and grow an overshadow mirth and pleasure, and the great haunting memory should spoil all the afterlives of little animals helped out of difficulties in order that they should be happy and light heartened as before. Mole rubbed his eyes and stared at Rat, who was looking at him in a puzzled sort of way. I beg your pardon, what did you say, Rat? he asked. I was only remarking, said the Rat slowly, that this was the right sort of place and that here, if anywhere, we should find him, and look why there he is the little fellow, and with a cry of delight he ran toward the slumbering portly. But Mole stood still a moment held in thought. As one awakened suddenly from a beautiful dream, who struggles to recall it and can recapture nothing but a dim sense of the beauty of it, the beauty, till that too fades away in its turn, and the dreamer bitterly accepts the hard, cold waking and all its penalties. So Mole, after struggling with his memory for a brief space, shook his head sadly and followed the Rat. Portly woke up with a joyous squeak, and wriggled with pleasure at the sight of his father's friends, who had played with him so often in past days. In a moment, however, his face grew blank, and he fell to hunting around in a circle with pleading wine, as a child that has fallen happily asleep in its nurse's arms, and wakes to find itself alone, and laid in a strange place, and searches corners and cupboards, and runs from room to room, despair growing silently in its heart. Even so, Portly searched the island and searched, dogged and unwearing, till at last the black moment came for giving it up, and sitting down, and crying bitterly. The Mole ran quickly to comfort the little animal, but Rat, lingering, looked long and doubtful at certain hoofmarks deep in the spore. Some great animal has been here, he murmured slowly and thoughtfully, and stood musing, musing, his mind strangely stirred. Come along, Rat, called the Mole, think of poor Otter, waiting up there by the ford. Portly had soon been comforted by the promise of a treat, a jaunt on the river in Mr Rat's real boat, and the two animals conducted him to the water's side, placed him securely between them in the bottom of the boat, and paddled off down the backwater. The sun was fully up now and hot on them, the birds sang lustily and without restraint, and flowers smiled and nodded from either bank, but somehow, so thought the animals, with less of richness and blaze of colour than they seem to remember seeing quite recently somewhere, they wondered where. The main river reached again, they turned the boat's head upstream, toward the point where they knew their friend was keeping his lonely vigil. As they drew near the familiar ford, the Mole took the boat into the bank, and they lifted Portly out and set him on his legs on the towpath, gave him his marching orders and a friendly pat on the back, and shoved out into midstream. They watched the little animal as he waddled along the path contentedly and with importance, watched him till they saw his muzzle suddenly lift and his waddle break into a clumsy amble, as he quickened his pace with shrill winds and wriggles of recognition. Looking up the river, they could see Otter start up, tense and rigid, from out of the shadows where he crouched in dumb patience, and could hear his amaze and joyous bark as he bounded up through the osiers onto the path. Then the Mole, with a strong pull-on-one oar, swung the boat round and let the full stream bear them down again, wither it would, their quest now happily ended. I feel strangely tired, Rat, said the Mole, leaning wearily over his oars as the boat drifted. It's been up all night, you'll say perhaps, but that's nothing. We do as much half the nights of the week at this time of year. No, I feel as if I had been through something very exciting and rather terrible, and it was just over, and yet nothing particular has happened. Or something very surprising, and splendid, and beautiful, murmured the Rat, leaning back and closing his eyes. I feel just as you do, Mole. Simply dead tired, though not body-tired. It's lucky we've got the stream with us to take us home, isn't it jolly to feel the sun again, soaking into one's bones, and hark to the wind, playing in the reeds. It's like music, far away music, said the Mole, nodding drowsily. So I was thinking, murmured the Rat dreamily and languid, dance music, the lilting sort that runs on without a stop, but with words in it too. It passes into words and out of them again. I catch them at intervals, then it is dance music once more, and then nothing but the reeds soft, thin whispering. You can hear better than I, said the Mole sadly. I cannot catch the words. Let me try to give you them, said the Rat softly, his eyes still closed. Now it is turning into words again, faint but clear. Lest the ore should dwell and turn your frolic to fret, you shall look on my paw at the helping oar, but then you shall forget. Now the reeds take it up. Forget, forget, they sigh, and it dyes away in a rustle and a whisper, then the voice returns. Lest limbs be reddened and rent, I spring the trap that is set. As I loose the snare you may glimpse me there, for surely you shall forget. Row nearer, Mole, nearer to the reeds, it is hard to catch and grows each minute fainter. Helper and helper I cheer, small waifs in the woodland wet, strays I find in it, wounds I bind in it, bid in them all, forget. Nere, Mole, nearer! No, it's no good. The song has died away into reed-talk. But what do the words mean? asked the wandering Mole. That I do not know, said the Rat simply. I pass them on to you as they reach me. Ah, now they return again, and this time full and clear, this time at last it is the real and mistakeable thing, simple, passionate, perfect. Well, let's have it then, said the Mole, after he had waited patiently for a few minutes, half dozing in the hot sun. But no answer came. He looked and understood the silence. With a smile of much happiness on his face, and something of a listening look still lingering there, the weary Rat was fast asleep. End of Chapter 7. himself immured in a dank and noisome dungeon, and knew that all the grim darkness of a many or fortress lay between him and the outer world of sunshine and well-metaled high roads, where he had lately been so happy, desporting himself as if he had bought up every road in England. He flung himself at full length on the floor, and shed bitter tears, and abandoned himself to dark despair. This is the end of everything, he said. At least it is the end of the career of Toad, which is the same thing. The popular and handsome Toad, the rich and hospitable Toad, the Toad so free and careless and debonair. How can I hope to be ever set at large again, he said, who have been imprisoned so justly, for stealing so handsome a motor-car in such an audacious manner, and for such lurid and imaginative cheek bestowed upon such a number of fat, red-faced policemen. Here his sobs choked him.  Now I must languish in this dungeon till people who were proud to say they knew me have forgotten the very name of Toad. Wise old badger, he said.  What sound judgements, what a knowledge of men and manners you possess! Oh unhappy and forsaken Toad! With lamentations such as these he passed his days and nights for several weeks, refusing his meals or intermediate light refreshments, though the grim and ancient jailer, knowing that Toad's pockets were well lined, frequently pointed out the many comforts, and indeed luxuries could, by arrangements, be sent in at a price from outside. Now the jailer had a daughter, a pleasant wench and good-hearted, who assisted her father in the lighter duties of his post. She was particularly fond of animals, and besides her canary, whose cage hung on a nail in the massive wall of the keep by day, to the great annoyance of prisoners who relished an after-dinner nap, and was shrouded in an anti-McCassar on the parlor table at night, she kept several pie-balled mice and a restless revolving squirrel. This kind-hearted girl, pitying the misery of Toad, said to her father one day, Father, I can't bear to see that poor beast so unhappy and getting so thin. You let me have the managing of him. You know how fond of animals I am. I'll make him eat from my hand, and sit up, and do all sorts of things. Her father replied that she could do what she liked with him. He was tired of Toad, and his sulks, and his heirs, and his meanness. So that day she went on her errand of mercy, and knocked at the door of Toad's cell. Now cheer up Toad, she said coaxingly on entering, and sit up, and dry your eyes, and be a sensible animal, and do try and eat a bit of dinner. See, I brought you some of mine hot from the oven. It was bubble and squeak between two plates, and its fragrance filled the narrow cell. The penetrating smell of cabbage reached the nose of Toad, as he lay prostrate in his misery on the floor, and gave him the idea for a moment that perhaps life was not such a blank and desperate thing as he had imagined.  So the wise girl retired for the time, but of course a good deal of the smell of hot cabbage remained behind, as it will do, and Toad, between his sobs, sniffed and reflected, and gradually began to think new and inspiring thoughts, of chivalry, and poetry, and deeds still to be done, of broad meadows, and cattle browsing in them, raked by sun and wind, of kitchen gardens, and straight herb borders, and warm snapdragon beset by bees, and of the comforting chink of dishes set down on the table at Toad Hall, and the scrape of chair legs on the floor, as everyone pulled himself up close to his work. The air of the narrow cell took on a rosy tinge.  When the girl returned some hours later, she carried a tray with a cup of fragrant tea, steaming on it, and a plate piled high with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in it, in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply torqued to Toad, and with no uncertain voice, torqued of warm kitchens, of breakfast on bright frosty mornings, of cozy parlour firesides on winter evenings when one's ramble was over, and slippered feet were propped on the fender, of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries. Toad sat up on end once more, dried his eyes, sipped his tea, and munched his toast, and soon began talking freely about himself, and the house he lived in, and his doings there, and how important he was, and what a lot his friends thought of him. The jailer's daughter saw that the topic was doing him as much good as the tea, as indeed it was, and encouraged him to go on. Tell me about Toad Hall, said she, it sounds beautiful. Toad Hall, said Toad proudly, is an eligible, self-contained gentleman's residence, very unique, dating in part from the fourteenth century, but replete with every modern convenience, up-to-date sanitation, five minutes from the church, post-off, and gulf-links suitable for—'Bless the animal,' said the girl, laughing. I don't want to take it. Tell me something real about it. But first, wait till I fetch you some more tea and toast.' She tripped away, and presently returned with a fresh trayful, and Toad, pitching into the toast with avidity, his spirits quite restored to their usual level, told her about the boathouse, and the fish pond, and the old walled kitchen garden, and about the pig-stayers, and the stables, and the pigeon-house, and the hen-house, and about the dairy, and the wash-house, and the china cupboards, and the linen presses—she liked that bit especially—and about the banqueting hall and the fun they had there when the other animals were gathered round the table, and Toad was at his best, singing songs, telling stories, carrying on generally. Then she wanted to know about his animal friends, and was very interested in all he had to tell her about them, and how they lived, and what they did to pass their time. Of course, she did not say she was fond of animals as pets, because she had the sense to see that Toad would be extremely offended. When she said good night had been filled his water jug, and shaken up his straw for him, Toad was very much the same sanguine, self-satisfied animal that he had been of old. He sang a little song or two of the sort he used to sing at his dinner parties, curled himself up in the straw, and had an excellent night's rest and the pleasantest of dreams. They had many interesting talks together after that, as the dreamy days went on, and the jailer's daughter grew very sorry for Toad, and thought it a great shame that a poor little animal should be locked up in prison for what seemed to her a very trivial offence. Toad, of course, in his vanity, thought that her interest in him proceeded from a growing tenderness, and he could not help half regretting that the social gulf between them was so very wide. For she was a comely lass, and evidently admired him very much. One morning the girl was very thoughtful, and answered at random, and did not seem to Toad to be paying proper attention to his witty sayings and sparkling comments. Toad, she said presently, just listen, please. I have an aunt who is a washerwoman. There, there, said Toad graciously and affably. Never mind, think no more of it. I have several aunts who ought to be washerwomen. Oh, do be quiet a minute, Toad, said the girl. You talk too much.  As I said, I have an aunt who is a washerwoman. She does the washing for all the prisoners in the castle. We try to keep any paying business of that sort in the family, you understand. She takes out the washing on Monday morning, and brings it in on Friday evening. This is a Thursday. Now, this is what occurs to me. You are very rich. At least, you're always telling me so. And she is very poor. A few pounds wouldn't make any difference to you, and it would mean a lot to her. Now, I think that if she were probably approached—squared, I believe is the word you animals use—you could come to some arrangement by which she would let you have her dress and bonnet and so on, and you could escape from the castle as the official washerwoman. You're very alike in some respects, particularly about the figure. We're not, said the Toad in a huff. I have a very elegant figure, for what I am. So has my aunt, replied the girl, for what she is, but have it your own, where you horrid, proud, ungrateful animal, when I'm sorry for you and I'm trying to help you. Yes, yes, yes. That's all right. Thank you very much indeed," said the Toad hurriedly. But look here. You wouldn't surely have Mr. Toad of Toad Hall going about the country, disguised as a washerwoman. Then you can stop here as a Toad," replied the girl with much spirit. I suppose you want to go off in a coach and four. Honest Toad was always ready to admit himself in the wrong.  Introduce me to your worthy aunt, if you will be so kind, and I have no doubt that the excellent lady and I will be able to arrange terms that are satisfactory to both parties. Next evening the girl ushered her aunt into Toad's cell, bearing this week's washing pinned up in a towel. The old lady had been prepared beforehand for the interview, and the sight of certain golden sovereigns the Toad had thoughtfully placed on the table in full view practically completed the matter, and left little further to discuss. In return for his cash Toad received a cotton print gown, an apron, a shawl, and a rusty black bonnet. The only stipulation the old lady made being that she should be gagged and bound and dumped in a corner. By this not very convincing artifice, she explained, aided by a picturesque fiction which she could supply herself, she hoped to retain her situation in spite of the suspicious appearance of things. Toad was delighted with the suggestion. It would enable him to leave the prison in some style and with his reputation for being a desperate and dangerous fellow untarnished, and he readily helped the jailer's daughter to make her aunt appear as much as possible the victim of circumstances over which she had no control.  Shaking with laughter, she proceeded to cook and eye him into the cotton print gown, arranged the shawl with a professional fold, and tied the strings of the rusty bonnet under his chin. You're the very image of her, she giggled, only I'm sure you never looked half so respectable in all your life before.  With a quaking heart, but as firm a footstep as he could command, Toad set forth cautiously on what seemed to be a most hair-brained and hazardous undertaking, but he was soon agreeably surprised to find how easily everything was made for him, and a little humbled at the thought that both his popularity and the sex that seemed to inspire it were really in others. The Washerwoman's squat figure in its familiar cotton print seemed to passport for every barred door and grim gateway. Even when he hesitated, uncertain as the right turning to take, he found himself helped out of his difficulty by the water at the next gate, anxious to be off to his tea, summoning him to come along sharp, and not to keep him waiting there all night. The chaff and the humorous sallies to which he was subjected, and to which of course he had to provide prompt and effective reply, formed indeed his chief danger. For Toad was an animal with a strong sense of his own dignity, and the chaff was mostly, he thought, poor and clumsy, and the humor of the sallies entirely lacking. However, he kept his temper, though with great difficulty, suited his retorts to his company and his supposed character, and did his best not to overstep the limits of good taste. It seemed hours before he crossed the last courtyard, rejecting the pressing invitations from the last guard's room, and dodged the outspread arms of the last water, pleading with simulated passion for just one more last farewell embrace. But at last he heard the wicked gate in the great outer door click behind him, felt the fresh air of the outer world upon his anxious brow, and knew that he was free. Dizzy with the easy success of his daring exploit, he walked quickly towards the lights of the town, not knowing in the least what he should do next, only quite certain of one thing, that he must remove himself as quickly as possible from a neighbourhood where the lady he was forced to represent was so well known and so popular a character. As he walked along considering, his attention was caught by some red and green lights a little way off to one side of the town, and the sound of the puffing and snorting of engines and the banging of shunted trucks fell on his ear. A-ha! he thought. This is a piece of luck. A railway station is the thing I want most in the whole world at this moment, and what's more, I needn't go through the town to get it, and shan't have to support this humiliating character by repartees which, though thoroughly effective, do not assist one's sense of self-respect. He made his way to the station accordingly, consulted a timetable, and found that a train bound more or less in the direction of his home was due to start in half an hour. More luck! said Toad, his spirits rising rapidly, and went off to the booking office to buy his ticket. He gave the name of the station that he knew to be nearest to the village of which Toad Hall was the principal feature, and mechanically put his fingers in search of the necessary money where his waistcoat pocket should have been. But here the cotton gown which had nobly stood by him so far, and which he had basically forgotten, intervened, and frustrated his efforts. In a sort of nightmare he struggled with the strange uncanny thing that seemed to hold his hands, turn all muscular strivings to water, and laugh at him all the time while other travellers, forming a little line behind, waited with impatience, making suggestion of more or less value, and comments of more or less stringency and point. At last, somehow he never rightly understood how, he burst the barriers, attained the goal, arrived at where all waistcoat pockets are internally situated, and found, not only no money, but no pocket to hold this, and no waistcoat to hold the pocket. To his horror, he recollected that he had left both coasts and waistcoat behind him in his cell, and with them his pocketbook, money, keys, watch, matches, pencil case, all that makes life worth living, all that distinguishes the many pocketed animal, the Lord of Creation, from the inferior one pocketed, or no pocketed productions that hop or trip about permissively, unequipped for the real contest. In his misery he made one desperate attempt to carry the thing off, and with a return to his fine old manner, a blend of the squire and the college don, he said, Look here, I find I've left my purse behind. Just give me that ticket, will you, and I'll send the money on to-morrow. I'm well known in these parts.  I should think you were pretty well known in these parts, he said. If you tried this game on often. Here, stand away from the window, please, madam. You're obstructing the other passengers. An old gentleman who had been prodding him in the back for some moments here thrust him away, and what was worse addressed him as his good woman, which angered toad more than anything that had occurred that evening. Baffled and full of despair, he wandered blindly down the platform where the train was standing, and tears trickled down each side of his nose. It was hard, he thought, to be within sight of safety and almost home, and to be balked by the want of a few wretched shillings, and by the petty-fogging mistrustfulness of paid officials. Very soon his escape would be discovered. The hunt would be up. He would be caught, reviled, loaded with chains, dragged back to prison, and bread and water and straw. His guards and penalties would be doubled, and oh, what sarcastic remarks the girl would make. What was we done? He was not swift afoot. His figure was unfortunately recognisable. Could he not squeeze under the seat of a carriage? He had seen this method adopted by schoolboys when the journey money provided by thoughtful parents had been diverted to other and better ends. As he pondered, he found himself opposite the engine, which was being oiled. A burly man with an oil can in one hand and a lump of cotton waste in the other. Hello, mother! said the engine driver. What's the trouble? You don't look particularly cheerful. Il sa! cried the toad, crying afresh. I am a poor and unhappy washerwoman, and I've lost all my money. I can't pay for a ticket, and I must get home somehow. And whatever I may to do, I don't know. Oh dear, oh dear! That's a bad business indeed, said the engine driver, reflectively. Lost your money? I can't get home, and got some kids too waiting for you, I daresay. Oh, are any amount of them, sob toad. And they'll be hungry, and playing with matches, and upsetting lamps, the little innocents, and quarrelling, and going on generally. Oh dear, oh dear! Well, I'll tell you what I'll do, said the good engine driver.  Very well, that's that. An arm and engine driver, as you may well see. And there's no denying it's terribly dirty work. Uses up a pair of old shirts, it does, till my missus is fair tired of washing them. If you'll wash a few shirts for me when you get home and send them along, I'll give you a ride on my engine. It's against the company regulations, but we're not so very particular in these out-of-the-way parts. The toad's misery turned into rapture as he eagerly scrambled up into the cab of the engine. Of course, he had never washed a shirt in his life, and couldn't if he tried, and anyhow he wasn't going to begin. But he thought, when I get safely home to Toad Hall, and have some money again, and pockets to put it in, I will send the engine driver enough to pay for quite a quantity of washing, and that will be the same thing. Or better, the guard waved his welcome flag, the engine driver whistled in cheerful response, and the train moved out of the station. As the speed increased and the toad could see on either side of him real fields and trees and hedges and cows and horses all flying past him. And as he thought how every minute was bringing him nearer to Toad Hall, and sympathetic friends, and money to chink in his pocket, and a soft bed to sleep in, and good things to eat, and praise and admiration at the recital of his adventures, and his surpassing cleverness, he began to skip up and down and shout and sing snatches of song to the great astonishment of the engine driver, who had come across washerwomen before at long intervals, but never one at all like this. They had covered many and many a mile, and Toad was already considering what he would have to supper as soon as he got home, when he noticed that the engine driver, with a puzzled expression on his face, was leaning over the side of the engine and listening hard. Then he saw him climb onto the coals, and gaze out over the top of the train. Then he returned and said to Toad, It's very strange, we're the last train running on this direction tonight, yet I could have sworn I heard another following us. Toad ceased his frivolous antics at once. He became grave and depressed, and a dull pain in the lower part of his spine, communicating itself to his legs, made him want to sit down and try desperately not to think of all the possibilities. By this time the moon was shining brightly, and the engine driver, steadying himself on the coals, could command a view of the line behind them for a long distance. Presently he called out, I can see it clearly now, it's an engine on our rails, coming along at a great pace. It looks as if we were being pursued. The miserable Toad, crouching in the coal dust, tried hard to think of something to do with dismal want of success. They're gaining on us fast, said the engine driver, and the engine is crowded with the queerest lot of people, men like ancient waters waving halberds, policemen in their helmets waving truncheons, and shabbily dressed men in pot hats, obvious and unmistakable plain clothes detectives even at this distance, waving revolvers and walking sticks, all waving and all shouting the same thing, stop, stop, stop. Then Toad fell on his knees among the coals, and raising his clasped paws in supplication, cried, Save me, only save me, dear, kind Mr. Engine Driver, and I will confess everything, I am not the simple washerwoman I seem to be, I have no children waiting for me, innocent or otherwise, I am a Toad, the well-known and popular Mr. Toad, a landed proprietor. I have just escaped by my great daring and cleverness from a loothsome dungeon into which my enemies had flung me, and if those fellows on that engine recapture me, it will be chains and bread and water and straw and misery, once more for poor unhappy innocent Toad. The engine driver looked down upon him very sternly and said, Now tell the truth, what will you put in prison for? Oh, it was nothing very much. Said poor Toad, colouring deeply, I only borrowed a motor-car, when the owners were at lunch, they had no need of it at the time, and I didn't mean to steal it real, but people, especially magistrates, take such harsh views of thoughtlessness and high-spirited actions. The engine driver looked very grave and said, I fear that you have indeed been a wicked Toad, and by rights I ought to give you up to offended justice. But you are evidently in sore trouble and distress, so I will not desert you. I don't hold with motor-cars for one thing, and I don't hold with being ordered about by policemen when I'm on my own engine for another.  Oh, do my best, and we may beat them yet. They piled on more coals, shoveling furiously, the furnace roared, the sparks flew, the engine leapt and swung, but still their pursuers slowly gained. The engine driver with a sigh wiped his brow with a handful of cotton waste and said, I'm afraid it's no good, Toad. You see, they're running light, and they have the better engine. There's one thing left for us to do, and it's your only chance, so attend very carefully to what I tell you. A short way ahead of us is a long tunnel, and on the other side of that, the line passes through a thick wood. Now, I will put on all the speed I can while we're running through the tunnel, but the other fellows will slow down a bit, naturally, for fear of an accident. When we are through, I will shut off steam and put on brakes as hard as I can, and the moment it's safe to do so, you must jump and hide in the wood before they get through the tunnel and see you. Then, I will go full speed ahead again, and they can chase me if they like, for as long as they like and as far as they like.  They piled on more coals, and the train shot into the tunnel, and the engine rushed and roared and rattled, till at last they shot out the other end into fresh air and the peaceful moonlight, and saw the wood lying dark and helpful on either side of the line.  The toad got down on the step, and as the train slowed down to almost a walking pace, he heard the driver call out, Now, jump! Toad jumped, rolled down a short embankment, picked himself up unhurt, scrambled into the wood and hid. Peeping out, he saw his train get up speed again and disappear at a great pace. Then, out of the tunnel, burst the pursuing engine, roaring and whistling, her motley crew waving their various weapons and shouting, Stop! Stop! Stop! When they were past, the toad had a hearty laugh for the first time since he was thrown into prison, but he soon stopped laughing when he came to consider that it was now very late and dark and cold, and he was in an unknown wood with no money and no chance of supper, and still very far from friends and home, and the dead silence of everything after the raw and rattle of the train was something of a shock. He dared not leave the shelter of the trees, so he struck into the wood with the idea of leaving the railway as far as possible behind him. After so many weeks within walls, he found the wood strange and unfriendly, and inclined, he thought, to make fun of him.  Once he met a fox, who stopped, looked him up and down in a sarcastic sort of way, and said, Hello, washerwoman!  Toad looked about for a stone to throw at him, but he could not succeed in finding one which vexed him more than anything. At last, cold, hungry, and tired out, he sought the shelter of a hollow tree, where with branches and dead leaves he made himself as comfortable a bed as he could, and slept soundly till the morning. 9. Wayfarer's All The water-rat was restless, and he did not exactly know why. To all appearance the summer's pomp was still at its fullest height, and although in the tilled acres green had given way to gold, though rowens were reddening, and the woods were dashed here and there with a tawny fierceness, yet light and warmth and colour were still present in undiminished measure, clean of any chilly premonitions of the passing year. But the constant chorus of the orchards and hedges had shrunk to a casual even song from a few yet unwearyed performance. The robin was beginning to assert himself once more, and there was a feeling in the air of change and departure. The cuckoo, of course, had long been silent, but many another feathered friend for months a part of the familiar landscape in its small society was missing too, and it seemed that the ranks thinned steadily day by day. Rat, ever observant of any winged movement, saw that it was taking daily a southing tendency, and even as he lay in bed at night he thought he could make out passing in the darkness overhead the beat and quiver of impatient pinions obedient to the pre-emptory call. Nature's grand hotel had its season, like the others, as the guests one by one pack, pay and depart, and the seats at the tableau d'art shrink pitifully at each succeeding meal, as suites of rooms are closed, carpets taken up and waiters sent away. Those borders who are staying on en pension, until next year's full reopening, cannot help being somewhat affected by all these flittings and farewells. This eager discussion of plans, roots, and fresh quarters, this daily shrinkage in the stream of comradeship, one gets unsettled, depressed, and inclined to be quarrelous. Why this craving for change? Why not stay on quietly here like us and be jolly? You don't know this hotel out of season and what fun we have among ourselves, we fellows who remain and see the whole interesting year out. All very true no doubt the others reply, we quite envy you, and some other year perhaps, but just now we have arrangements, and there's the bus at the door, our time is up. So they depart with a smile and a nod, and we miss them and feel resentful. The rat was a self-sufficing sort of animal, rooted to the land, and whoever went, he stayed. Still he could not help noticing what was in the air, and feeling some of its influence in his bones. It was difficult to settle down to anything seriously, with all this flitting going on. Leaving the water side where rushes stood thick and tall in a stream that was becoming sluggish and low, he wandered country woods, crossed a field or two of pastureage already looking dusty and parched, and thrust into the great realm of wheat, yellow, wavy and murmurous, full of quiet motion, and small whisperings. Here he often loved to wander through the forests of stiff, strong stalks that carried their own golden sky away over his head, a sky that was always dancing, shimmering, softly talking or swaying strongly to the passing wind and recovering itself with a toss and a merry laugh. Here too he had many small friends, a society complete in itself, leading full and busy lives, but always with a spare moment to gossip and exchange news with a visitor. Today, however, though they were civil enough, the field mice and harvest mice seemed preoccupied. Many were digging and tunneling busily, others gathered together in small groups, examined the plans and drawings of small flats, stated to be desirable and compact, and situated conveniently near the stores. Some were hauling out dusty trunks and dress baskets, others were already elbow deep, packing their belongings, while everywhere, piles and bundles of wheat, oats, barley, beechmast and nuts lay about ready for transport. Here's old Ratty. They cried as soon as they saw him. Come and bear a hand, Rat, and don't stand about idle. What sort of games are you up to? said the water rat severely. You know it isn't time to be thinking of winter quarters yet by a long way. Oh yes, we know that, explained the field mouse rather shame-facedly, but it's almost as well to be in good time, isn't it? We really must get all the furniture and baggages and stores moved out before all those horrid machines became clicking around the fields, and then, you know, the best flats get picked up so quickly nowadays, and if you're late, you have to put up with anything, and they want such a lot of doing up too before they're fit to move in too. Of course, we're early, we know that, but we're only just making a start. Oh, bother starts, said the rat. It's a splendid day. Come for a row, or a stroll along the hedges, or a picnic in the woods or something. Well, I think not today, thank you, replied the field mouse hurrily. Perhaps some other day, when we've more time. The rat, with a snort of contempt, swung round to go, tripped over a hatbox and fell with undignified remarks. If people would be more careful, said a field mouse rather stiffly, and look where they're going, people wouldn't hurt themselves and forget themselves. Mind that whole, doll rat? You'd better sit down somewhere. In an hour or two, we may be more free to attend to you. You won't be free, as you call it, much this side of Christmas. I can see that, retorted the rat grumpily, as he picked his way out of the field. He returned somewhat despondently to his river again, his faithful, steady-going old river, which never packed up, flitted, or went into winter quarters. In the osiers which fringed the bank, he spied a swallow sitting. Presently it was joined by another, and then by a third, and the birds, fidgeting restlessly on their bowels, talked together earnestly and low. What already? said the rat, strolling up to them. What's the hurry?  Oh, we're not off yet, if that's what you mean? replied the first swallow. We're only making plans and arranging things, talking it over, you know. What route we're taking this year, and where we'll stop and so on, that's half the fun. Fun, said the rat. Now that's just what I don't understand. If you've got to leave this pleasant place and your friends who will miss you and your snug homes that you've just settled into, why, when the hour strikes, I've no doubt you go bravely and face all the trouble and discomfort and change and newness, and make believe that you're not very unhappy. But to want to talk about it, or even to think about it, till you really need? No, you don't understand naturally, said the second swallow. First we feel a stirring within us, a sweet unrest, then back come the recollections one by one, like homing pigeons. They flutter through our dreams at night, then fly with us in our wheelings and circlings by day. We hunger to inquire of each other, to compare notes and assure ourselves that it was all really true, as one by one the scents and sounds and names of long forgotten places come gradually back and beckon us. Couldn't you stop on for just this year? suggested the water rat wistfully. We'll do all our best to make you feel at home. You've no idea what good times we have here when you're far away. Oh, I tried stopping on one year, said the third swallow. I'd grown so fun to the place that when the time came I hung back and let the others go on without me. For a few weeks it was all well enough, but afterwards all the weary length of the nights, the shivering sunless days, the air so clammy and chill and not an insect in an acre of it. No, it was no good. My courage broke down and one cold, stormy night I took wing, flying well inland on account of the strong easterly gales. It was snowing hard as I beat through the passes of the great mountains and I had a stiff fight to win through, but I shall never forget the blissful feeling of the hot sun again on my back as I sped down to the lakes that lay so blue and placid below me and the taste of my first fat insect. The past was like a bad dream. The future was all happy holiday as I moved southward week by week, easily, lazily, lingering as long as I dared, but always heed in the call. No, I had had my one and never again did I think of disobedience. Ah, yes, the call of the south of the south, twittered the other two dreamily. It's songs, it's hues, it's radiant air. Oh, do you remember? And forgetting the rat, they slid into passionate reminiscence while he listened, fascinated, and his heart burned within him. In himself too he knew that it was vibrating at last that chord hitherto dormant and unsuspecting. The mere chatter of these southern-bound birds, their pale and second-hand reports, had power to awaken this wild new sensation and thrilled him through and through with it. What would one moment of the real thing work into him? One passionate touch of the real southern sun, one waft of the authentic odor. With closed eyes he dared to dream a moment in full abandonment, and when he looked again the river seemed steely and chill, the green fields gray and lightless. Then his loyal heart seemed to cry out on his weaker self for its treachery. Why do you ever come back then at all? he demanded of the swallows. What do you find to attract you in this poor, drab little country? And do you think, said the First Swallow, that the other call is not for us too in its due season? The call of lush meadow grass, wet orchards, warm, insect-haunted ponds, a browsing cattle of hay-making, and all the farm buildings clustering round the house of the perfect eaves? Do you suppose, asked the second one, that you were the only living thing that craves with a hunger longing to hear the cuckoo's note again? In due time, said the third, we shall be homesick once more for the quiet water lilies swaying on the surface of an English stream. But today all that seems pale and thin and very far away. Just now our blood dances to another music. They fail at twittering among themselves once more, and this time their intoxicating babble was of violet seas, tawny sands, and lizard-haunted walls. Restlessly the rat wandered off once more, climbed the slope that rose gently from the north bank of the river, and lay looking out towards the great ring of downs that barred his vision farther southwards. His simple horizon hear the two, his mountains of the moon, his limit behind which lay nothing he cared to see or to know. Today, to him gazing south with newborn needs stirring in his heart, the clear sky over their long low outlined seemed to pulsate with promise. Today the unseen was everything, the unknown the only real fact of life. On this side of the hills was now the real blank. On the other lay the crowded and coloured panorama that his inner eye was seeing so clearly. What seas lay beyond green, leaping, and crested? What sun-bathed coasts, along which the white villas glittered against the olive woods? What quiet harbours thronged with gallant shipping bound for purple islands of wine and spice? Islands set low in languorous waters. He rose and descended river-woods once more, then changed his mind and sought the side of the dusty lane. There, lying half-buried in the thick, cool, under-hedged tangle that bordered it, he could muse on the metal road and all the wondrous world that it led to. On all the wayfarers too that might have trodden it, and the fortunes and adventures they had gone to seek or found unseeking, out there beyond, beyond. Footsteps fell on his ear and the figure of one that walked somewhat warily came into view, and he saw that it was a rat and a very dusty one. The wayfarer, as he reached him, saluted with a gesture of courtesy that has something foreign about it. Hesitated a moment, then with a pleasant smile turned from the track and sat down by his side in the cool herbage. He seemed tired and the rat let him rest unquestioned, understanding something of what was in his thoughts, knowing too the value all animals attach at times to mere silent companionship when the weary muscle slackened and the mind marks time. The wayfarer was lean and keen featured and somewhat bowed at the shoulders. His paws were thin and long, his eyes much wrinkled at the coolers, and he wore small gold earrings in his neatly set, well-shaped ears. His knitted jersey was of a faded blue, his breeches patched and stained were based on a blue foundation, and his small belongings that he carried were tied up in a blue cotton handkerchief. When he had rested a while, the stranger sighed, snuffed the air and looked about him. That was clover, that warm whiff on the breeze, he remarked, and those are cows we hear cropping the grass behind us and blowing softly between mouthfuls. There is a sound of distant reapers and yonder rises a blue line of cottage smoke against the woodland. The river runs somewhere close by, for I hear the call of a mohen, and I see by your build that you're a fresh water mariner. Everything seems asleep, and yet going on all the time, it is a goodly life that you lead, friend, no doubt the best in the world if only you are strong enough to lead it. Yes, it's the life, the only life to live, responded the water rat dreamily, and without his usual wholehearted conviction. I did not exactly say that, replied the stranger cautiously, but no doubt it's the best. I've tried it, and I know. And because I've just tried it six months of it, and know it's the best, here am I, footstore and hungry, tramping away from it, tramping southwards, following the old call, back to the old life, the life which is mine, and which will not let me go. Is this, then, yet another of them? mused the rat. And where have you just come from? he asked. He hardly dared to ask where he was bound for. He seemed to know the answer only too well. Nice little farm, replied the wayfarer briefly, up along in that direction. He nodded northwards. Never mind about it, I had everything I could want, everything I had any right to expect of life, and more, and here I am, glad to be here all the same though, glad to be here, so many miles farther on the road, so many hours nearer to my heart's desire. His shining eyes held fast to the horizon, and he seemed to be listening for some sound that was wanting from that inland acreage, vocal as it was with the cheerful music of pastureage and farmland. You are not one of us, said the water rat, not yet a farmer, nor even I should judge of this country. Right, replied the stranger. I'm a seafaring rat I am, and the port I originally hailed from is Constantinople, though I'm a sort of a foreigner there too in a manner of speaking. You will have heard of Constantinople, friend, a fair city and an ancient and glorious one, and you may have heard too of Sigurd, king of Norway, and how he sailed thither with sixty ships, and how he and his men rode through streets all canopied in their honour with purple and gold, and how the emperor and empress came down and banqueted with him on board his ship. When Sigurd returned home, many of his northmen remained behind and entered the emperor's body guard, and my ancestor, a Norwegian born, stayed behind too, with the ships that Sigurd gave the emperor. Seafarers, we have ever been, and no wonder. As for me, the city of my birth is no more my home than any other pleasant port between there and the London River. I know them all, and they know me. Set me down on any of their keys or foreshores, and I'm at home again. I suppose you go on great voyages, said the water rat with growing interest. Months and months out of sight of land and provisions running short and allowanced as to water, and your mind communing with the mighty ocean and all that sort of thing. By no means, said the sea rat, frankly. Such a life as you describe would not suit me at all. I'm in the coasting trade and rarely out of sight of land. It's the jolly times on shore that appeal to me as much as any seafaring. Oh, those southern seaports, the smell of them, the riding lights at night, the glamour. Well, perhaps you have chosen the better way, said the water rat, but rather doubtfully. Tell me something of your coasting then, if you have a mind, too, and what sort of harvest an animal of spirit might hope to bring home from it to warm his later days with gallant memories by the fire side. From my life, I confess to you, feels to me today somewhat narrow and circumscribed. My last voyage, began the sea rat, that landed me eventually in this country, bound with high hopes for my inland farm will serve as a good example of any of them, and indeed as an epitome of my highly coloured life. Family troubles, as usual, began it. The domestic storm cone was hoisted, and I shipped myself aboard a small trading vessel bound from Constantinople by classic seas whose every wave throbs with a deathless memory to the Grecian Islands and the Levant. Those were golden days and barmy nights, in and out of harbor all the time, old friends everywhere, sleeping in some cool temple or ruined cistern during the heat of the day, feasting and song after sundown, under the great star set in a velvet sky. Thence we turned and coasted up the Adriatic, its shores swimming in an atmosphere of amber, rose, an aqua and marine. We lay in a wide landlocked harbor. We roamed through ancient and noble cities, until, at last one morning as the sun rose royally behind us, we rode into Venice down a path of gold. Old Venice is a fine city wherein a rat can wander at his ease and take his pleasure, or when weary of wandering can sit at the edge of the grand canal at night, feasting with his friends when the air is full of music and the sky full of stars, and the lights flash and shimmer on the polished steel prowls of the swaying gondolas, packed so you could walk across the canal on them from side to side. And then the food. Do you like shellfish? Well, well, we won't linger over that now. He was silent for a time, and the water at silent too and enthralled floated on dream canals and heard a phantom song peeling high between vaporous gray wave-lap to walls. Sathwards we sailed again at last, continued the sea-rat, coasting down the Italian shore till finally we made Palermo, and there I quitted for a long happy spell on shore. I never stick too long to one ship. One gets narrow-minded and prejudiced. Besides, Sicily is one of my happy hunting grounds. I know everybody there and their ways just suit me. I spent many jolly weeks in the island staying with my friends upcountry. When I grew restless again, I took advantage of a ship that was training to Sardinia and Corsica, and very glad I was to feel the fresh breeze and the sea-spray in my face once more. But isn't it very heart-and-stuffy down in the hole I think you call it? asked the water-rat. The seafarer looked at him with the suspicion of a wink. I'm an old hand, he remarked with much simplicity. The captain's cabin's good enough for me. It's a hard life by all accounts, murmured the rat, sunk in deep thought. For the crew it is, replied the seafarer gravely again with the ghost of a wink. From Corsica, he went on, I made use of a ship that was taking wine to the mainland. We made a lissot in the evening, lay two, hauled up our wine casks and hoeved them overboard, tied one to the other by a long line. Then the crew took to the boats and rode shoreward, singing as they went and drawing after them the long bobbing procession of casks, like a mile of porpoises. On the sands they had horses waiting, which dragged the casks upon the steep street of the little town, with a fine rush and a clatter and a scramble. When the last cask was in, we went and refreshed and rested, and sat late into the night drinking with our friends, and next morning I was off to the great olive woods for a spell and a rest. For now I had done with islands for the time and ports and shipping was plentiful, so I led a lazy life among the peasants, lying and watching them work or stretched high on the hillside with the blue Mediterranean far below me. And so at length, by easy stages, partly on foot, partly by sea, to Marseille, and the meeting of old shipmates, and the visiting of great ocean-bound vessels and feasting once more, talk of shellfish, why sometimes I dream of the shellfish of Marseille and wake up crying. That reminds me, said the polite water rat.  Of course, you will stop and take your midday meal with me. My hole is close by. It is sometime past noon, and you are very welcome to whatever there is. Now I call that kind and brotherly of you, said the sea rat. I was indeed hungry when I sat down, and ever since I inadvertently happened to mention shellfish, my pangs have been extreme. But couldn't you fetch it along out here? I'm none too fond of going under hatches, unless I'm obliged to. And then, while we eat, I could tell you more concerning my voyages and the pleasant life I lead. At least, it's very pleasant to me, and by your attention I judge it commends itself to you. Whereas if we go indoors, it's a hundred to one that I shall presently fall asleep. That is indeed an excellent suggestion, said the water rat, and hurried off home. There he got out the luncheon basket, and packed a simple meal, in which, remembering the stranger's origin and preference, he took care to include a yard of long French bread, a sausage out of which the garlic sang, some cheese which lay down and cried, and a long-necked straw-covered flask containing bottled sunshine, shed and garnered on far southern slopes. Thus laden, he returned with all speed and blushed for pleasure at the old seamen's commendations of his taste and judgment, as together they unpacked the basket and laid out the contents on the grass by the roadside. The sea rat, as soon as his hunger was somewhat assuaged, continued the history of his latest voyage, conducting his simple hero from port to port of Spain, landing him at Lisbon, a porto, and Bordeaux, introducing him to the pleasant harbours of Cornwall and Devon, and so up the channel to that final quayside, where, landing after winds long contrary storm-driven and weather-beaten, he had caught the first magical hints and heraldings of another spring, and fired by these had spared on a long tramp inland, hungry for the experiment of life on some quiet farmstead, very far from the weary beatings of any sea. Spellbound and quivering with excitement, the water rat followed the adventurer, league by league, over stormy bays, through crowded roadsteads, across harbour-bars on a racing tide, up winding rivers that hid their busy little towns round a sudden turn, and left him with a regretful sigh, planted at his dull inland farm, about which he desired to hear nothing. By this time their meal was over, and the seafarer refreshed and strengthened, his voice more vibrant, his eye lit with a brightness that seemed caught from some far away sea beacon, filled his glass with the red and glowing vintage of the south, and leaning toward the water rat, compelled his gaze and held him, body and soul, while he talked. Those eyes were of the changing foam-streaked gray-green of leaping northern seas, in the glass shone a hot ruby that seemed the very heart of the south, beating for him who had courage to respond to its pulsation. The twin lights, the shifting gray and the steadfast red, mastered the water rat, and held him bound, fascinated, powerless. The quiet world outside their rays receded far away, and ceased to be, and the talk, the wonderful talk, flowed on, or was its speech entirely, or did it pass in times, into song? Shanty of the sailors, weighing the dripping anchor, sonorous harm of the shrouds, in a tearing north-easter, ballad of the fishermen, hauling his nets at sundown against an apricot sky, cords of guitar and mandolin from gondola or cake, did it change into the cry of the wind, plaintive at first, angrily shrill as it freshened, rising to a tearing whistle, sinking to a musical tinkle of air from the leech of the bellying sail. All these sounds the spellbound listener seemed to hear, and with them the hungry complaint of the gulls and the sea-mews, the soft thunder of the breaking wave, the cry of the protesting shingle, back into speech again at past, and with beating heart he was following the adventures of a dozen seaports, the fights, the escapes, the rallies, the comradeships, the gallant undertakings, or he searched islands for treasure, fished in still lagoons and dazed day-long on warm white sand. Of deep sea-fishings he heard tell, and mighty silver gatherings, of the mile-long net, of sudden perils, noise of breakers on a moonless night, of the tall boughs of the great liner taking shape overhead through the fog, of the merry homecoming, the headland rounded, the harbour lights opened out, the group seemed dimly on the key, the cheery hail, the splash of the hawzer, the trudge up the steep little street toward the comforting glow of red-curtained windows. Lastly in his waking dream it seemed to him that the adventurer had risen to his feet, but was still speaking, still holding him fast with his sea-gray eyes. And now, he was softly saying, I take to the road again, holding on southwards for many a long and dusty day, till at last I reach the little grey sea-town I know so well that clings along one steep side of the harbour. There through dark doorways you look down flights of stone steps overhung by great pink tufts of valerian and ending in a patch of sparkling blue water. The little boats that lie tethered to the rings and stanchions of the old seawall are gaily painted as those I clambered in and out of in my childhood, the salmon leap on the flood tide, schools of mackerel flash and play past key sides and foreshores, and by the windows the great vessels glide, night and day, up to their moorings or forth to the open sea. There sooner or later the ships of all seafaring nations arrive, and there at its destined hour the ship of my choice will let go its anchor. I shall take my time, I shall tarry and bide, until at last the right one lies waiting for me, wrapped out into mid-stream, loaded low, her bow-sprit pointing down harbour. I shall slip on board by boat or a long hauser, and then one morning I shall wait to the song and tramp of the sailors, the clink of the capstan and the rattle of the anchor chain come in merrily in. We shall break out the jib and the fossil, the white houses on the harbour side will glide slowly past us as she gathers steering-way, and the voyage will have begun. As she forges toward the headland she will clothe herself with canvas, and then, once outside, the sounding slap of great green seas as she heels to the wind pointing south. And you, will you come too, young brother? For the days pass and never return, and the south still awaits you. Take the adventure, heed the call, now ere the irrevocable moment passes.  Then someday, someday long hence, jog home here if you will, when the cup has been drained and the play has been played, and sit down by your quiet river with a store of goodly memories for company. You can easily overtake me on the road, for you are young and I am aging, and go softly. I will linger and look back, and at last I will surely see you coming, eager and light hearted, with all the south in your face. The voice died away and ceased as an insect's tiny trumpet dwindles swiftly into silence, and the water rat, paralyzed and staring, saw at last but a distant speck on the white surface of the road. Mechanically he rose and proceeded to repack the luncheon basket, carefully and without haste. Mechanically he returned home, gathered together a few small necessaries and special treasures he was fond of, and put them in a satchel, acting with slow deliberation, moving about the room like a sleepwalker, listening ever with parted lips. He swung the satchel over his shoulder, carefully selected a stout stick for his wayfaring, and with no haste, but with no hesitation at all, he stepped across the threshold, just as the Mole appeared at the door. Why, where were you off to, Ratty? asked the Mole in great surprise, grasping him by the arm. Go in south with the rest of them, murmured the rat in dreamy monotone, never looking at him, seawards first, and then on shipboard, and so to the shores that are calling me. He pressed resolutely forward, still without haste, but with dogged fixity of purpose. But the Mole, now thoroughly alarmed, placed himself in front of him, and looking into his eyes saw that they were glazed and set, and turned a streaked and shifting grey, not his friend's eyes, but the eyes of some other animal. Grappling with him strongly, he dragged him inside, threw him down, and held him. The rat struggled desperately for a few moments, and then his strength seemed suddenly to leave him, and he lay still and exhausted, with closed eyes trembling. Presently the Mole assisted him to rise, and placed him in a chair where he sat, collapsed and shrunken into himself, his body shaken by a violent shivering, passing in time into an hysterical fit of dry sobbing. Mole made the door fast, threw the satchel into a drawer, and locked it, and sat down quietly on the table by his friend, waiting for the strange seizure to pass. Gradually the rat sank into a troubled dose, broken by starts and confused murmurings of things strange and wild and foreign to the unenlightened Mole, and from that he passed into a deep slumber. Very anxious in mind the Mole left him for a time, and busied himself with household matters. It was getting dark when he returned to the parlour, and found the rat where he had left him, wide awake indeed, but listless, silent and ejected. He took one hasty glance at his eyes, found them to his great satisfaction, clear and dark and brown again as before, and then sat down and tried to cheer him up and help him relate what had happened to him. Poor Ratty did his best, by degrees, to explain things, but how could he put into cold words what had mostly been suggestion? How recall for another's benefit the haunting sea voices that had sung to him? How reproduce at second hand the magic of the seafarer's hundred reminiscences? Even to himself, now the spell was broken and the glamour gone, he found it difficult to account for what had seemed, some hours ago, the inevitable and only thing. It is not surprising then that he failed to convey to the Mole any clear idea of what he had been through that day. To the Mole this much was plain. The fit or attack had passed away, and had left him sane again, though shaken and cast down by the reaction. But he seemed to have lost all interest for the time in the things that went to make up his daily life, as well as all the pleasant forecasting of the altered days and doings that the changing season was surely bringing. Casually then, and with seeming indifference, the Mole turned his talk to the harvest that was being gathered in, the towering wagons and their straining teams, the growing ricks, and the large moon rising over bear acres dotted with sheaves. He talked of the reddening apples around, of the browning nuts of jams and preserves, and the distilling of cordials. Till by easy stages such as these he reached midwinter, its hearty joys and snug home life. And then he became simply lyrical. By degrees the rat began to sit up and to join in. His dull eyes brightened, and he lost some of his listless air. Presently the tactful Mole slipped away and returned with a pencil and a few half sheets of paper which he placed on the table at his friend's elbow. It's quite a long time since you did any poetry, he remarked. You might have a try at it this evening instead of, well, brooding over things so much. I've an idea that you'll feel a lot better when you've got something jotted down, if it's only just the rhymes.  It is true that he sucked a good deal more than he scribbled, but it was joy to the Mole to know that the cure had at least begun. End of chapter nine.