The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame (i read book .TXT) 📖

him hesitate and want to go back. As he halted in indecision it broke out on either side, and seemed to be caught up and passed on throughout the whole length of the wood to its farthest limit. They were up and alert and ready, evidently, whoever they were! And he—he was alone, and unarmed, and far from any help; and the night was closing in.

Then the pattering began.

He thought it was only falling leaves at first, so slight and delicate was the sound of it. Then as it grew it took a regular rhythm, and he knew it for nothing else but the pat-pat-pat of little feet still a very long way off. Was it in front or behind? It seemed to be first one, and then the other, then both. It grew and it multiplied, till from every quarter as he listened anxiously, leaning this way and that, it seemed to be closing in on him. As he stood still to hearken, a rabbit came running hard towards him through the trees. He waited, expecting it to slacken pace, or to swerve from him into a different course. Instead, the animal almost brushed him as it dashed past, his face set and hard, his eyes staring. ‘Get out of this, you fool, get out!’ the Mole heard him mutter as he swung round a stump and disappeared down a friendly burrow.

The pattering increased till it sounded like sudden hail on the dry leaf-carpet spread around him. The whole wood seemed running now, running hard, hunting, chasing, closing in round something or—somebody? In panic, he began to run too, aimlessly, he knew not whither. He ran up against things, he fell over things and into things, he darted under things and dodged round things. At last he took refuge in the deep dark hollow of an old beech tree, which offered shelter, concealment—perhaps even safety, but who could tell? Anyhow, he was too tired to run any further, and could only snuggle down into the dry leaves which had drifted into the hollow and hope he was safe for a time. And as he lay there panting and trembling, and listened to the whistlings and the patterings outside, he knew it at last, in all its fullness, that dread thing which other little dwellers in field and hedgerow had encountered here, and known as their darkest moment—that thing which the Rat had vainly tried to shield him from—the Terror of the Wild Wood!

Meantime the Rat, warm and comfortable, dozed by his fireside. His paper of half-finished verses slipped from his knee, his head fell back, his mouth opened, and he wandered by the verdant banks of dream-rivers. Then a coal slipped, the fire crackled and sent up a spurt of flame, and he woke with a start. Remembering what he had been engaged upon, he reached down to the floor for his verses, pored over them for a minute, and then looked round for the Mole to ask him if he knew a good rhyme for something or other.

But the Mole was not there.

He listened for a time. The house seemed very quiet.

Then he called ‘Moly!’ several times, and, receiving no answer, got up and went out into the hall.

The Mole’s cap was missing from its accustomed peg. His goloshes, which always lay by the umbrella-stand, were also gone.

The Rat left the house, and carefully examined the muddy surface of the ground outside, hoping to find the Mole’s tracks. There they were, sure enough. The goloshes were new, just bought for the winter, and the pimples on their soles were fresh and sharp. He could see the imprints of them in the mud, running along straight and purposeful, leading direct to the Wild Wood.

The Rat looked very grave, and stood in deep thought for a minute or two. Then he re-entered the house, strapped a belt round his waist, shoved a brace of pistols into it, took up a stout cudgel that stood in a corner of the hall, and set off for the Wild Wood at a smart pace.

It was already getting towards dusk when he reached the first fringe of trees and plunged without hesitation into the wood, looking anxiously on either side for any sign of his friend. Here and there wicked little faces popped out of holes, but vanished immediately at sight of the valorous animal, his pistols, and the great ugly cudgel in his grasp; and the whistling and pattering, which he had heard quite plainly on his first entry, died away and ceased, and all was very still. He made his way manfully through the length of the wood, to its furthest edge; then, forsaking all paths, he set himself to traverse it, laboriously working over the whole ground, and all the time calling out cheerfully, ‘Moly, Moly, Moly! Where are you? It’s me—it’s old Rat!’

He had patiently hunted through the wood for an hour or more, when at last to his joy he heard a little answering cry. Guiding himself by the sound, he made his way through the gathering darkness to the foot of an old beech tree, with a hole in it, and from out of the hole came a feeble voice, saying ‘Ratty! Is that really you?’

The Rat crept into the hollow, and there he found the Mole, exhausted and still trembling. ‘O Rat!’ he cried, ‘I’ve been so frightened, you can’t think!’

‘O, I quite understand,’ said the Rat soothingly. ‘You shouldn’t really have gone and done it, Mole. I did my best to keep you from it. We river-bankers, we hardly ever come here by ourselves. If we have to come, we come in couples, at least; then we’re generally all right. Besides, there are a hundred things one has to know, which we understand all about and you don’t, as yet. I mean passwords, and signs, and sayings which have power and effect, and plants you carry in your pocket, and verses you repeat, and dodges and tricks you practise; all simple enough when you know them, but they’ve got to be known if you’re small, or you’ll find yourself in trouble. Of course if you were Badger or Otter, it would be quite another matter.’

‘Surely the brave Mr. Toad wouldn’t mind coming here by himself, would he?’ inquired the Mole.

‘Old Toad?’ said the Rat, laughing heartily. ‘He wouldn’t show his face here alone, not for a whole hatful of golden guineas, Toad wouldn’t.’

The Mole was greatly cheered by the sound of the Rat’s careless laughter, as well as by the sight of his stick and his gleaming pistols, and he stopped shivering and began to feel bolder and more himself again.

‘Now then,’ said the Rat presently, ‘we really must pull ourselves together and make a start for home while there’s still a little light left. It will never do to spend the night here, you understand. Too cold, for one thing.’

‘Dear Ratty,’ said the poor Mole, ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’m simply dead beat and that’s a solid fact. You MUST let me rest here a while longer, and get my strength back, if I’m to get home at all.’

‘O, all right,’ said the good-natured Rat, ‘rest away. It’s pretty nearly pitch dark now, anyhow; and there ought to be a bit of a moon later.’

So the Mole got well into the dry leaves and stretched himself out, and presently dropped off into sleep, though of a broken and troubled sort; while the Rat covered himself up, too, as best he might, for warmth, and lay patiently waiting, with a pistol in his paw.

When at last the Mole woke up, much refreshed and in his usual spirits, the Rat said, ‘Now then! I’ll just take a look outside and see if everything’s quiet, and then we really must be off.’

He went to the entrance of their retreat and put his head out. Then the Mole heard him saying quietly to himself, ‘Hullo! hullo! here—is—a—go!’

‘What’s up, Ratty?’ asked the Mole.

‘SNOW is up,’ replied the Rat briefly; ‘or rather, DOWN. It’s snowing hard.’

The Mole came and crouched beside him, and, looking out, saw the wood that had been so dreadful to him in quite a changed aspect. Holes, hollows, pools, pitfalls, and other black menaces to the wayfarer were vanishing fast, and a gleaming carpet of faery was springing up everywhere, that looked too delicate to be trodden upon by rough feet. A fine powder filled the air and caressed the cheek with a tingle in its touch, and the black boles of the trees showed up in a light that seemed to come from below.

‘Well, well, it can’t be helped,’ said the Rat, after pondering. ‘We must make a start, and take our chance, I suppose. The worst of it is, I don’t exactly know where we are. And now this snow makes everything look so very different.’

It did indeed. The Mole would not have known that it was the same wood. However, they set out bravely, and took the line that seemed most promising, holding on to each other and pretending with invincible cheerfulness that they recognized an old friend in every fresh tree that grimly and silently greeted them, or saw openings, gaps, or paths with a familiar turn in them, in the monotony of white space and black tree-trunks that refused to vary.

An hour or two later—they had lost all count of time—they pulled up, dispirited, weary, and hopelessly at sea, and sat down on a fallen tree-trunk to recover their breath and consider what was to be done. They were aching with fatigue and bruised with tumbles; they had fallen into several holes and got wet through; the snow was getting so deep that they could hardly drag their little legs through it, and the trees were thicker and more like each other than ever. There seemed to be no end to this wood, and no beginning, and no difference in it, and, worst of all, no way out.

‘We can’t sit here very long,’ said the Rat. ‘We shall have to make another push for it, and do something or other. The cold is too awful for anything, and the snow will soon be too deep for us to wade through.’ He peered about him and considered. ‘Look here,’ he went on, ‘this is what occurs to me. There’s a sort of dell down here in front of us, where the ground seems all hilly and humpy and hummocky. We’ll make our way down into that, and try and find some sort of shelter, a cave or hole with a dry floor to it, out of the snow and the wind, and there we’ll have a good rest before we try again, for we’re both of us pretty dead beat. Besides, the snow may leave off, or something may turn up.’

So once more they got on their feet, and struggled down into the dell, where they hunted about for a cave or some corner that was dry and a protection from the keen wind and the whirling snow. They were investigating one of the hummocky bits the Rat had spoken of, when suddenly the Mole tripped up and fell forward on his face with a squeal.

‘O my leg!’ he cried. ‘O my poor shin!’ and he sat up on the snow and nursed his leg in both his front paws.

‘Poor old Mole!’ said the Rat kindly.

‘You don’t seem to be having much luck to-day, do you? Let’s have a look at the leg. Yes,’ he went on, going down on his knees to look, ‘you’ve cut your shin, sure enough. Wait till I get at my handkerchief, and I’ll tie it up for you.’

‘I must have tripped over a hidden branch or a stump,’ said the Mole miserably. ‘O, my! O, my!’

‘It’s a very clean cut,’ said the Rat, examining it again attentively. ‘That was never done by a branch or a stump. Looks as if it was made by a sharp edge