Chương Chương 4 · MR. BADGER

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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

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 of something in metal. Funny!” He pondered awhile, and

examined the humps and slopes that surrounded them.

“Well, never mind what done it,” said the Mole, forgetting his grammar

in his pain. “It hurts just the same, whatever done it.”

But the Rat, after carefully tying up the leg with his handkerchief,

had left him and was busy scraping in the snow. He scratched and

shovelled and explored, all four legs working busily, while the Mole

waited impatiently, remarking at intervals, “O, _come_ on, Rat!”

Suddenly the Rat cried “Hooray!” and then

“Hooray-oo-ray-oo-ray-oo-ray!” and fell to executing a feeble jig in

the snow.

“What _have_ you found, Ratty?” asked the Mole, still nursing his leg.

“Come and see!” said the delighted Rat, as he jigged on.

The Mole hobbled up to the spot and had a good look.

“Well,” he said at last, slowly, “I SEE it right enough. Seen the same

sort of thing before, lots of times. Familiar object, I call it. A

door-scraper! Well, what of it? Why dance jigs around a door-scraper?”

“But don’t you see what it _means_, you—you dull-witted animal?” cried

the Rat impatiently.

“Of course I see what it means,” replied the Mole. “It simply means

that some VERY careless and forgetful person has left his door-scraper

lying about in the middle of the Wild Wood, _just_ where it’s _sure_ to

trip _everybody_ up. Very thoughtless of him, I call it. When I get

home I shall go and complain about it to—to somebody or other, see if I

don’t!”

“O, dear! O, dear!” cried the Rat, in despair at his obtuseness. “Here,

stop arguing and come and scrape!” And he set to work again and made

the snow fly in all directions around him.

After some further toil his efforts were rewarded, and a very shabby

door-mat lay exposed to view.

“There, what did I tell you?” exclaimed the Rat in great triumph.

“Absolutely nothing whatever,” replied the Mole, with perfect

truthfulness. “Well now,” he went on, “you seem to have found another

piece of domestic litter, done for and thrown away, and I suppose

you’re perfectly happy. Better go ahead and dance your jig round that

if you’ve got to, and get it over, and then perhaps we can go on and

not waste any more time over rubbish-heaps. Can we EAT a doormat? or

sleep under a door-mat? Or sit on a door-mat and sledge home over the

snow on it, you exasperating rodent?”

“Do—you—mean—to—say,” cried the excited Rat, “that this door-mat

doesn’t _tell_ you anything?”

“Really, Rat,” said the Mole, quite pettishly, “I think we’d had enough

of this folly. Who ever heard of a door-mat _telling_ anyone anything?

They simply don’t do it. They are not that sort at all. Door-mats know

their place.”

“Now look here, you—you thick-headed beast,” replied the Rat, really

angry, “this must stop. Not another word, but scrape—scrape and scratch

and dig and hunt round, especially on the sides of the hummocks, if you

want to sleep dry and warm to-night, for it’s our last chance!”

The Rat attacked a snow-bank beside them with ardour, probing with his

cudgel everywhere and then digging with fury; and the Mole scraped

busily too, more to oblige the Rat than for any other reason, for his

opinion was that his friend was getting light-headed.

Some ten minutes’ hard work, and the point of the Rat’s cudgel struck

something that sounded hollow. He worked till he could get a paw

through and feel; then called the Mole to come and help him. Hard at it

went the two animals, till at last the result of their labours stood

full in view of the astonished and hitherto incredulous Mole.

In the side of what had seemed to be a snow-bank stood a solid-looking

little door, painted a dark green. An iron bell-pull hung by the side,

and below it, on a small brass plate, neatly engraved in square capital

letters, they could read by the aid of moonlight

MR. BADGER.

The Mole fell backwards on the snow from sheer surprise and delight.

“Rat!” he cried in penitence, “you’re a wonder! A real wonder, that’s

what you are. I see it all now! You argued it out, step by step, in

that wise head of yours, from the very moment that I fell and cut my

shin, and you looked at the cut, and at once your majestic mind said to

itself, ‘Door-scraper!’ And then you turned to and found the very

door-scraper that done it! Did you stop there? No. Some people would

have been quite satisfied; but not you. Your intellect went on working.

‘Let me only just find a door-mat,’ says you to yourself, ‘and my

theory is proved!’ And of course you found your door-mat. You’re so

clever, I believe you could find anything you liked. ‘Now,’ says you,

‘that door exists, as plain as if I saw it. There’s nothing else

remains to be done but to find it!’ Well, I’ve read about that sort of

thing in books, but I’ve never come across it before in real life. You

ought to go where you’ll be properly appreciated. You’re simply wasted

here, among us fellows. If I only had your head, Ratty——”

“But as you haven’t,” interrupted the Rat, rather unkindly, “I suppose

you’re going to sit on the snow all night and _talk?_ Get up at once

and hang on to that bell-pull you see there, and ring hard, as hard as

you can, while I hammer!”

While the Rat attacked the door with his stick, the Mole sprang up at

the bell-pull, clutched it and swung there, both feet well off the

ground, and from quite a long way off they could faintly hear a

deep-toned bell respond.

CHAPTER 4. MR. BADGER

THEY waited patiently for what seemed a very long time, stamping in the

snow to keep their feet warm. At last they heard the sound of slow

shuffling footsteps approaching the door from the inside. It seemed, as

the Mole remarked to the Rat, like some one walking in carpet slippers

that were too large for him and down at heel; which was intelligent of

Mole, because that was exactly what it was.

There was the noise of a bolt shot back, and the door opened a few

inches, enough to show a long snout and a pair of sleepy blinking eyes.

“Now, the _very_ next time this happens,” said a gruff and suspicious

voice, “I shall be exceedingly angry. Who is it _this_ time, disturbing

people on such a night? Speak up!”

“Oh, Badger,” cried the Rat, “let us in, please. It’s me, Rat, and my

friend Mole, and we’ve lost our way in the snow.”

“What, Ratty, my dear little man!” exclaimed the Badger, in quite a

different voice. “Come along in, both of you, at once. Why, you must be

perished. Well I never! Lost in the snow! And in the Wild Wood, too,

and at this time of night! But come in with you.”

The two animals tumbled over each other in their eagerness to get

inside, and heard the door shut behind them with great joy and relief.

The Badger, who wore a long dressing-gown, and whose slippers were

indeed very down at heel, carried a flat candlestick in his paw and had

probably been on his way to bed when their summons sounded. He looked

kindly down on them and patted both their heads. “This is not the sort

of night for small animals to be out,” he said paternally. “I’m afraid

you’ve been up to some of your pranks again, Ratty. But come along;

come into the kitchen. There’s a first-rate fire there, and supper and

everything.”

He shuffled on in front of them, carrying the light, and they followed

him, nudging each other in an anticipating sort of way, down a long,

gloomy, and, to tell the truth, decidedly shabby passage, into a sort

of a central hall; out of which they could dimly see other long

tunnel-like passages branching, passages mysterious and without

apparent end. But there were doors in the hall as well—stout oaken

comfortable-looking doors. One of these the Badger flung open, and at

once they found themselves in all the glow and warmth of a large

fire-lit kitchen.

The floor was well-worn red brick, and on the wide hearth burnt a fire

of logs, between two attractive chimney-corners tucked away in the

wall, well out of any suspicion of draught. A couple of high-backed

settles, facing each other on either side of the fire, gave further

sitting accommodations for the sociably disposed. In the middle of the

room stood a long table of plain boards placed on trestles, with

benches down each side. At one end of it, where an arm-chair stood

pushed back, were spread the remains of the Badger’s plain but ample

supper. Rows of spotless plates winked from the shelves of the dresser

at the far end of the room, and from the rafters overhead hung hams,

bundles of dried herbs, nets of onions, and baskets of eggs. It seemed

a place where heroes could fitly feast after victory, where weary

harvesters could line up in scores along the table and keep their

Harvest Home with mirth and song, or where two or three friends of

simple tastes could sit about as they pleased and eat and smoke and

talk in comfort and contentment. The ruddy brick floor smiled up at the

smoky ceiling; the oaken settles, shiny with long wear, exchanged

cheerful glances with each other; plates on the dresser grinned at pots

on the shelf, and the merry firelight flickered and played over

everything without distinction.

The kindly Badger thrust them down on a settle to toast themselves at

the fire, and bade them remove their wet coats and boots. Then he

fetched them dressing-gowns and slippers, and himself bathed the Mole’s

shin with warm water and mended the cut with sticking-plaster till the

whole thing was just as good as new, if not better. In the embracing

light and warmth, warm and dry at last, with weary legs propped up in

front of them, and a suggestive clink of plates being arranged on the

table behind, it seemed to the storm-driven animals, now in safe

anchorage, that the cold and trackless Wild Wood just left outside was

miles and miles away, and all that they had suffered in it a

half-forgotten dream.

When at last they were thoroughly toasted, the Badger summoned them to

the table, where he had been busy laying a repast. They had felt pretty

hungry before, but when they actually saw at last the supper that was

spread for them, really it seemed only a question of what they should

attack first where all was so attractive, and whether the other things

would obligingly wait for them till they had time to give them

attention. Conversation was impossible for a long time; and when it was

slowly resumed, it was that regrettable sort of conversation that

results from talking with your mouth full. The Badger did not mind that

sort of thing at all, nor did he take any notice of elbows on the

table, or everybody speaking at once. As he did not go into Society

himself, he had got an idea that these things belonged to the things

that didn’t really matter. (We know of course that he was wrong, and

took too narrow a view; because they do matter very much, though it

would take too long to explain why.) He sat in his arm-chair at the

head of the table, and nodded gravely at intervals as the animals told

their story; and he did not seem surprised or shocked at anything, and

he never said, “I told you so,” or, “Just what I always said,” or

remarked that they ought to have done so-and-so, or ought not to have

done something else. The Mole began to feel very friendly towards him.

When supper was really finished at last, and each animal felt that his

skin was now as tight as was decently safe, and that by this time he

didn’t care a hang for anybody or anything, they gathered round the

glowing embers of the great wood fire, and thought how jolly it was to

be sitting up _so_ late, and _so_ independent, and _so_ full; and after

they had chatted for a time about things in general, the Badger said

heartily, “Now then! tell us the news from your part of the world.

How’s old Toad going on?”

“Oh, from bad to worse,” said the Rat gravely, while the Mole, cocked

up on a settle and basking in the firelight, his heels higher than his

head, tried to look properly mournful. “Another smash-up only last

week, and a bad one. You see, he will insist on driving himself, and

he’s hopelessly incapable. If he’d only employ a decent, steady,

well-trained animal, pay him good wages, and leave everything to him,

he’d get on all right. But no; he’s convinced he’s a heaven-born

driver, and nobody can teach him anything; and all the rest follows.”

“How many has he had?” inquired the Badger gloomily.

“Smashes, or machines?” asked the Rat. “Oh, well, after all, it’s the

same thing—with Toad. This is the seventh. As for the others—you know

that coach-house of his? Well, it’s piled up—literally piled up to the

roof—with fragments of motor-cars, none of them bigger than your hat!

That accounts for the other six—so far as they can be accounted for.”

“He’s been in hospital three times,” put in the Mole; “and as for the

fines he’s had to pay, it’s simply awful to think of.”

“Yes, and that’s part of the trouble,” continued the Rat. “Toad’s rich,

we all know; but he’s not a millionaire. And he’s a hopelessly bad

driver, and quite regardless of law and order. Killed or ruined—it’s

got to be one of the two things, sooner or later. Badger! we’re his

friends—oughtn’t we to do something?”

The Badger went through a bit of hard thinking. “Now look here!” he

said at last, rather severely; “of course you know I can’t do anything

_now?_”

His two friends assented, quite understanding his point. No animal,

according to the rules of animal-etiquette, is ever expected to do

anything strenuous, or heroic, or even moderately active during the

off-season of winter. All are sleepy—some actually asleep. All are

weather-bound, more or less; and all are resting from arduous days and

nights, during which every muscle in them has been severely tested, and

every energy kept at full stretch.

“Very well then!” continued the Badger. “_But_, when once the year has

really turned, and the nights are shorter, and halfway through them one

rouses and feels fidgety and wanting to be up and doing by sunrise, if

not before—_you_ know!——”

Both animals nodded gravely. _They_ knew!

“Well, _then_,” went on the Badger, “we—that is, you and me and our

friend the Mole here—we’ll take Toad seriously in hand. We’ll stand no

nonsense whatever. We’ll bring him back to reason, by force if need be.

We’ll _make_ him be a sensible Toad. We’ll—you’re asleep, Rat!”

“Not me!” said the Rat, waking up with a jerk.

“He’s been asleep two or three times since supper,” said the Mole,

laughing. He himself was feeling quite wakeful and even lively, though

he didn’t know why. The reason was, of course, that he being naturally

an underground animal by birth and breeding, the situation of Badger’s

house exactly suited him and made him feel at home; while the Rat, who

slept every night in a bedroom the windows of which opened on a breezy

river, naturally felt the atmosphere still and oppressive.

“Well, it’s time we were all in bed,” said the Badger, getting up and

fetching flat candlesticks. “Come along, you two, and I’ll show you

your quarters. And take your time tomorrow morning—breakfast at any

hour you please!”

He conducted the two animals to a long room that seemed half bedchamber

and half loft. The Badger’s winter stores, which indeed were visible

everywhere, took up half the room—piles of apples, turnips, and

potatoes, baskets full of nuts, and jars of honey; but the two little

white beds on the remainder of the floor looked soft and inviting, and

the linen on them, though coarse, was clean and smelt beautifully of

lavender; and the Mole and the Water Rat, shaking off their garments in

some thirty seconds, tumbled in between the sheets in great joy and

contentment.

In accordance with the kindly Badger’s injunctions, the two tired

animals came down to breakfast very late next morning, and found a

bright fire burning in the kitchen, and two young hedgehogs sitting on

a bench at the table, eating oatmeal porridge out of wooden bowls. The

hedgehogs dropped their spoons, rose to their feet, and ducked their

heads respectfully as the two entered.

“There, sit down, sit down,” said the Rat pleasantly, “and go on with

your porridge. Where have you youngsters come from? Lost your way in

the snow, I suppose?”

“Yes, please, sir,” said the elder of the two hedgehogs respectfully.

“Me and little Billy here, we was trying to find our way to

school—mother _would_ have us go, was the weather ever so—and of course

we lost ourselves, sir, and Billy he got frightened and took and cried,

being young and faint-hearted. And at last we happened up against Mr.

Badger’s back door, and made so bold as to knock, sir, for Mr. Badger

he’s a kind-hearted gentleman, as everyone knows——”

“I understand,” said the Rat, cutting himself some rashers from a side

of bacon, while the Mole dropped some eggs into a saucepan. “And what’s

the weather like outside? You needn’t ‘sir’ me quite so much?” he

added.

“O, terrible bad, sir, terrible deep the snow is,” said the hedgehog.

“No getting out for the likes of you gentlemen to-day.”

“Where’s Mr. Badger?” inquired the Mole, as he warmed the coffee-pot

before the fire.

“The master’s gone into his study, sir,” replied the hedgehog, “and he

said as how he was going to be particular busy this morning, and on no

account was he to be disturbed.”

This explanation, of course, was thoroughly understood by every one

present. The fact is, as already set forth, when you live a life of

intense activity for six months in the year, and of comparative or

actual somnolence for the other six, during the latter period you

cannot be continually pleading sleepiness when there are people about

or things to be done. The excuse gets monotonous. The animals well knew

that Badger, having eaten a hearty breakfast, had retired to his study

and settled himself in an arm-chair with his legs up on another and a

red cotton handkerchief over his face, and was being “busy” in the

usual way at this time of the year.

The front-door bell clanged loudly, and the Rat, who was very greasy

with buttered toast, sent Billy, the smaller hedgehog, to see who it

might be. There was a sound of much stamping in the hall, and presently

Billy returned in front of the Otter, who threw himself on the Rat with

an embrace and a shout of affectionate greeting.

“Get off!” spluttered the Rat, with his mouth full.

“Thought I should find you here all right,” said the Otter cheerfully.

“They were all in a great state of alarm along River Bank when I

arrived this morning. Rat never been home all night—nor Mole

either—something dreadful must have happened, they said; and the snow

had covered up all your tracks, of course. But I knew that when people

were in any fix they mostly went to Badger, or else Badger got to know

of it somehow, so I came straight off here, through the Wild Wood and

the snow! My! it was fine, coming through the snow as the red sun was

rising and showing against the black tree-trunks! As you went along in

the stillness, every now and then masses of snow slid off the branches

suddenly with a flop! making you jump and run for cover. Snow-castles

and snow-caverns had sprung up out of nowhere in the night—and snow

bridges, terraces, ramparts—I could have stayed and played with them

for hours. Here and there great branches had been torn away by the

sheer weight of the snow, and robins perched and hopped on them in

their perky conceited way, just as if they had done it themselves. A

ragged string of wild geese passed overhead, high on the grey sky, and

a few rooks whirled over the trees, inspected, and flapped off

homewards with a disgusted expression; but I met no sensible being to

ask the news of. About halfway across I came on a rabbit sitting on a

stump, cleaning his silly face with his paws. He was a pretty scared

animal when I crept up behind him and placed a heavy forepaw on his

shoulder. I had to cuff his head once or twice to get any sense out of

it at all. At last I managed to extract from him that Mole had been

seen in the Wild Wood last night by one of them. It was the talk of the

burrows, he said, how Mole, Mr. Rat’s particular friend, was in a bad

fix; how he had lost his way, and ‘They’ were up and out hunting, and

were chivvying him round and round. ‘Then why didn’t any of you _do_

something?’ I asked. ‘You mayn’t be blest with brains, but there are

hundreds and hundreds of you, big, stout fellows, as fat as butter, and

your burrows running in all directions, and you could have taken him in

and made him safe and comfortable, or tried to, at all events.’ ‘What,

_us?_’ he merely said: ‘_do_ something? us rabbits?’ So I cuffed him

again and left him. There was nothing else to be done. At any rate, I

had learnt something; and if I had had the luck to meet any of ‘Them’

I’d have learnt something more—or _they_ would.”

“Weren’t you at all—er—nervous?” asked the Mole, some of yesterday’s

terror coming back to him at the mention of the Wild Wood.

“Nervous?” The Otter showed a gleaming set of strong white teeth as he

laughed. “I’d give ’em nerves if any of them tried anything on with me.

Here, Mole, fry me some slices of ham, like the good little chap you

are. I’m frightfully hungry, and I’ve got any amount to say to Ratty

here. Haven’t seen him for an age.”

So the good-natured Mole, having cut some slices of ham, set the

hedgehogs to fry it, and returned to his own breakfast, while the Otter

and the Rat, their heads together, eagerly talked river-shop, which is

long shop and talk that is endless, running on like the babbling river

itself.

A plate of fried ham had just been cleared and sent back for more, when

the Badger entered, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and greeted them all

in his quiet, simple way, with kind enquiries for every one. “It must

be getting on for luncheon time,” he remarked to the Otter. “Better

stop and have it with us. You must be hungry, this cold morning.”

“Rather!” replied the Otter, winking at the Mole. “The sight of these

greedy young hedgehogs stuffing themselves with fried ham makes me feel

positively famished.”

The hedgehogs, who were just beginning to feel hungry again after their

porridge, and after working so hard at their frying, looked timidly up

at Mr. Badger, but were too shy to say anything.

“Here, you two youngsters be off home to your mother,” said the Badger

kindly. “I’ll send some one with you to show you the way. You won’t

want any dinner to-day, I’ll be bound.”

He gave them sixpence apiece and a pat on the head, and they went off

with much respectful swinging of caps and touching of forelocks.

Presently they all sat down to luncheon together. The Mole found

himself placed next to Mr. Badger, and, as the other two were still

deep in river-gossip from which nothing could divert them, he took the

opportunity to tell Badger how comfortable and home-like it all felt to

him. “Once well underground,” he said, “you know exactly where you are.

Nothing can happen to you, and nothing can get at you. You’re entirely

your own master, and you don’t have to consult anybody or mind what

they say. Things go on all the same overhead, and you let ’em, and

don’t bother about ’em. When you want to, up you go, and there the

things are, waiting for you.”

The Badger simply beamed on him. “That’s exactly what I say,” he

replied. “There’s no security, or peace and tranquillity, except

underground. And then, if your ideas get larger and you want to

expand—why, a dig and a scrape, and there you are! If you feel your

house is a bit too big, you stop up a hole or two, and there you are

again! No builders, no tradesmen, no remarks passed on you by fellows

looking over your wall, and, above all, no _weather_. Look at Rat, now.

A couple of feet of flood water, and he’s got to move into hired

lodgings; uncomfortable, inconveniently situated, and horribly

expensive. Take Toad. I say nothing against Toad Hall; quite the best

house in these parts, _as_ a house. But supposing a fire breaks

out—where’s Toad? Supposing tiles are blown off, or walls sink or

crack, or windows get broken—where’s Toad? Supposing the rooms are

draughty—I _hate_ a draught myself—where’s Toad? No, up and out of

doors is good enough to roam about and get one’s living in; but

underground to come back to at last—that’s my idea of _home!_”

The Mole assented heartily; and the Badger in consequence got very

friendly with him. “When lunch is over,” he said, “I’ll take you all

round this little place of mine. I can see you’ll appreciate it. You

understand what domestic architecture ought to be, you do.”

After luncheon, accordingly, when the other two had settled themselves

into the chimney-corner and had started a heated argument on the

subject of _eels_, the Badger lighted a lantern and bade the Mole

follow him. Crossing the hall, they passed down one of the principal

tunnels, and the wavering light of the lantern gave glimpses on either

side of rooms both large and small, some mere cupboards, others nearly

as broad and imposing as Toad’s dining-hall. A narrow passage at right

angles led them into another corridor, and here the same thing was

repeated. The Mole was staggered at the size, the extent, the

ramifications of it all; at the length of the dim passages, the solid

vaultings of the crammed store-chambers, the masonry everywhere, the

pillars, the arches, the pavements. “How on earth, Badger,” he said at

last, “did you ever find time and strength to do all this? It’s

astonishing!”

“It _would_ be astonishing indeed,” said the Badger simply, “if I _had_

done it. But as a matter of fact I did none of it—only cleaned out the

passages and chambers, as far as I had need of them. There’s lots more

of it, all round about. I see you don’t understand, and I must explain

it to you. Well, very long ago, on the spot where the Wild Wood waves

now, before ever it had planted itself and grown up to what it now is,

there was a city—a city of people, you know. Here, where we are

standing, they lived, and walked, and talked, and slept, and carried on

their business. Here they stabled their horses and feasted, from here

they rode out to fight or drove out to trade. They were a powerful

people, and rich, and great builders. They built to last, for they

thought their city would last for ever.”

“But what has become of them all?” asked the Mole.

“Who can tell?” said the Badger. “People come—they stay for a while,

they flourish, they build—and they go. It is their way. But we remain.

There were badgers here, I’ve been told, long before that same city

ever came to be. And now there are badgers here again. We are an

enduring lot, and we may move out for a time, but we wait, and are

patient, and back we come. And so it will ever be.”

“Well, and when they went at last, those people?” said the Mole.

“When they went,” continued the Badger, “the strong winds and

persistent rains took the matter in hand, patiently, ceaselessly, year

after year. Perhaps we badgers too, in our small way, helped a

little—who knows? It was all down, down, down, gradually—ruin and

levelling and disappearance. Then it was all up, up, up, gradually, as

seeds grew to saplings, and saplings to forest trees, and bramble and

fern came creeping in to help. Leaf-mould rose and obliterated, streams

in their winter freshets brought sand and soil to clog and to cover,

and in course of time our home was ready for us again, and we moved in.

Up above us, on the surface, the same thing happened. Animals arrived,

liked the look of the place, took up their quarters, settled down,

spread, and flourished. They didn’t bother themselves about the

past—they never do; they’re too busy. The place was a bit humpy and

hillocky, naturally, and full of holes; but that was rather an

advantage. And they don’t bother about the future, either—the future

when perhaps the people will move in again—for a time—as may very well

be. The Wild Wood is pretty well populated by now; with all the usual

lot, good, bad, and indifferent—I name no names. It takes all sorts to

make a world. But I fancy you know something about them yourself by

this time.”

“I do indeed,” said the Mole, with a slight shiver.

“Well, well,” said the Badger, patting him on the shoulder, “it was

your first experience of them, you see. They’re not so bad really; and

we must all live and let live. But I’ll pass the word around to-morrow,

and I think you’ll have no further trouble. Any friend of _mine_ walks

where he likes in this country, or I’ll know the reason why!”

When they got back to the kitchen again, they found the Rat walking up

and down, very restless. The underground atmosphere was oppressing him

and getting on his nerves, and he seemed really to be afraid that the

river would run away if he wasn’t there to look after it. So he had his

overcoat on, and his pistols thrust into his belt again. “Come along,

Mole,” he said anxiously, as soon as he caught sight of them. “We must

get off while it’s daylight. Don’t want to spend another night in the

Wild Wood again.”

“It’ll be all right, my fine fellow,” said the Otter. “I’m coming along

with you, and I know every path blindfold; and if there’s a head that

needs to be punched, you can confidently rely upon me to punch it.”

“You really needn’t fret, Ratty,” added the Badger placidly. “My

passages run further than you think, and I’ve bolt-holes to the edge of

the wood in several directions, though I don’t care for everybody to

know about them. When you really have to go, you shall leave by one of

my short cuts. Meantime, make yourself easy, and sit down again.”

The Rat was nevertheless still anxious to be off and attend to his

river, so the Badger, taking up his lantern again, led the way along a

damp and airless tunnel that wound and dipped, part vaulted, part hewn

through solid rock, for a weary distance that seemed to be miles. At

last daylight began to show itself confusedly through tangled growth

overhanging the mouth of the passage; and the Badger, bidding them a

hasty good-bye, pushed them hurriedly through the opening, made

everything look as natural as possible again, with creepers, brushwood,

and dead leaves, and retreated.

They found themselves standing on the very edge of the Wild Wood. Rocks

and brambles and tree-roots behind them, confusedly heaped and tangled;

in front, a great space of quiet fields, hemmed by lines of hedges

black on the snow, and, far ahead, a glint of the familiar old river,

while the wintry sun hung red and low on the horizon. The Otter, as

knowing all the paths, took charge of the party, and they trailed out

on a bee-line for a distant stile. Pausing there a moment and looking

back, they saw the whole mass of the Wild Wood, dense, menacing,

compact, grimly set in vast white surroundings; simultaneously they

turned and made swiftly for home, for firelight and the familiar things

it played on, for the voice, sounding cheerily outside their window, of

the river that they knew and trusted in all its moods, that never made

them afraid with any amazement.

As he hurried along, eagerly anticipating the moment when he would be

at home again among the things he knew and liked, the Mole saw clearly

that he was an animal of tilled field and hedge-row, linked to the

ploughed furrow, the frequented pasture, the lane of evening

lingerings, the cultivated garden-plot. For others the asperities, the

stubborn endurance, or the clash of actual conflict, that went with

Nature in the rough; he must be wise, must keep to the pleasant places

in which his lines were laid and which held adventure enough, in their

way, to last for a lifetime.