Speaker 1: Extract from the Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Graham.
What a fellow you are for giving in, said the
rat reproachfully. Why only just now I saw a sardine
opener on the kitchen dresser quite distinctly, And everybody knows
that means there are sardines about somewhere in the neighborhood.
Rouse yourself, pull yourself together, and come with me in forage.
They went and foraged accordingly, hunting through every cupboard and
turning out every drawer. The resort was not so very
depressing after all, though of course it might have been better.
A tin of sardines, a box of Captain's biscuits nearly full,
and a German sausage encased in silver paper. There's a
banquet for you, observed the rat as he arranged the table.
I know some animals who would give their ears to
be sitting down to supper with us to night. No bread,
groaned the mole dolorously. No butter, no no patty de
fois gras, no champagne, continued the rat, grinning. And that
reminds me, what's that little door at the end of
the passage your cellar? Of course, every luxury in this house.
Just you wait a minute, He made for the cellar door,
and presently reappeared, somewhat dusty, with a bottle of beer
in each paw and another under each arm. Self indulgent, beggar,
you seem to be, mole, he observed. Deny yourself nothing.
This is really the jolliest little place I ever was in. Now,
wherever did you pick up those prints? Make the place
look so homelike they do? No wonder you're so fond
of it, Mole. Tell us all about it and how
you came to make it what it is. Then, while
the rat busied himself fetching plates and knives and forks
and mustard, which he mixed in an egg, up, the mole,
his bosom, still heaving with the stress of his recent emotion,
related somewhat shyly at first, but with more freedom as
he warmed to his subject, how this was planned, and
how that was thought out, and how this was got
through a windfall from an aunt, and that was a
wonderful find and a bargain, and this other thing was
bought out of laborious savings and a certain amount of
going without his spirits. Finally, quite restored. He must needs
go and caress his possessions, and take a lamp and
show off their points to his visitor and expatiate on them.
Quite forgetful of the supper they both so much needed rat,
who was desperately hungry, but strove to conceal it, nodding seriously,
examining with a puckered brow, and saying wonderful and most
remarkable at intervals when the chance for an observation was
given him. At last, the rat succeeded in decoying him
to the table, and had just got seriously to work
with the sardine opener when sounds were heard from the
forecourt without sounds like the scuffling of small feet in
the gravel, and a confused murmur of tiny voices, while
broken sentences reached them. Now all in a line, hold
the lantern up a bit, Tommy, clear your throats first,
no coughing after I say one, two, three? Where's young
Bill here? Come on? Do we're all awaiting? What's up?
Inquired the rat, pausing in his labors. I think it
must be the field mice, replied the mole, with a
touch of pride in his manner. They go round carol
singing regularly at this time of the year. They're quite
an institution in these parts, and they never pass me over.
They came to mole End last of all, and I
used to give them hot drinks and sapp or two
sometimes when I could afford it. It would be like
old times to hear them again. Let's have a look
at them, cried the rat, jumping up and running to
the door. It was a pretty sight, and the seasonable
one that met their eyes when they flung the door open.
In the forecourt, lit by the dim rays of a
horn lantern, some eight or ten little field mice stood
in a semicircle, red worsted comforters round their throats, their
forepaws thrust deep into their pockets, their feet jigging for warmth.
With bright beady eyes, they glanced shyly at each other,
sniggering a little, sniffing, and applying coat sleeves a good deal.
As the door opened, one of the elder ones that
carried the lantern was just saying now then one, two, three,
and forthwith their shrill little voices. Up rose on the air,
singing one of the old time carols that their forefathers
composed in fields that were fallow and held by frost,
or when snow bound in chimney corners and handed down
to be sung in the miry street to lamp lit
windows at Yule time. Carol villagers, all this frosty tide,
let your doors swing open wide, though wind may follow
and snow beside. Yet draw us in by your fire
to bide. Joy shall be yours in the morning. Here
we stand in the cold, and the sleet, blowing fingers
and stamping feet come from far away you to greet
you by the fire, and we in the street bidding
you joy in the morning. For ere one half of
the night was gone sudden as star has led us
on reigning bliss and benison bliss tomorrow and more anon
joy for every morning. Good man Joseph toiled through the snow,
saw the star o'er a stable low Mary, she might
not further go, welcome thatch and litter below. Joy was
hers in the morning. And then they heard the angels
tell who were the first to cry? O weell animals,
All as it befell in the stable where they did dwell,
Joy shall be theirs in the morning. The voices ceased
the singers, bashful but smiling, exchanged sidelong glances, and silence succeeded,
but for a moment only. Then from up above and
far away down the tunnel they had so lately traveled,
was borne to their ears in a faint musical hum,
the sound of distant bells ringing a joyful and clangorous peal.
Very well sung, boys, cried the rat heartily. And now
come along in, all of you, and warm yourselves by
the fire and have something hot. Yes, come along, field mice,
cried the mole eagerly. This is quite like old times.
Shut the door after you pull up that settle to
the fire. Now you just wait a minute while we
Oh ratty, he cried in despair, plumping down on a
seat with tears impending. Whatever are we doing? We nothing
to give them. You leave all that to me, said
the masterful rat. Here, you with the lantern, come over
this way. I want to talk to you. Now tell me,
are there any shops open at this hour of the night. Why, certainly, sir,
replied the field mouse, respectfully, at this time of the year,
our shops keep open to all sorts of hours. Then
look here, said the rat. You go off at once,
you and your lantern, and you get me here. Much
muttered conversation ensued, and the mole only heard bits of it,
such as fresh mind, No a pound of that will do?
See you get bug ins, for I won't have any other. No,
only the best. If you can't get it there, try
somewhere else, yes, of course, homemade, no tin stuff. Well,
then do the best you can. Finally there was a
chink of coin passing from port to paw. The field
mouse was provided with an ample basket for his purchasers,
and off he hurried, he and his lantern. The rest
of the field mice perched in a row on the settle,
their small legs swinging, gave themselves up to enjoyment of
the fire, and toasted their chilblains till they tingled, while
the mole, failing to draw them into easy conversation, plunged
into family history and made each of them recite the
names of his numerous brothers who were too young. It
appeared to be allowed to go out caroling this year,
but looked forward very shortly to winning the parental consent.
The rat, meanwhile, was busy examining the label on one
of the beer bottles. I perceive this to be old Burton,
he remarked, approvingly, sensible mole, the very thing. Now we
should be able to mull some ale. Get the things ready, mole,
while I draw the corks. It did not take long
to prepare the brew and thrust the tin heater well
into the red heart of the fire. And soon every
field mouse was sipping and coughing and choking for a
little mulled ale goes a long way and wiping his
eyes and laughing, and forgetting he had ever been cold
in all his life. They act plays too, these fellows,
the mole explained to the rat. Make them up all
by themselves, and act them afterwards. And very well they
do it too. They gave us a capital one last
year about a field mouse who was captured at sea
by a barbary course air and made to row in
a galley. And when he escaped and got home again,
his lady love had gone into a convent. Here. You
you were in it, I remember, Get up and recite
a bit. The field mouse addressed, got up on his legs,
giggle shyly, looked round the room, and remained absolutely tongue tied.
His comrades cheered him on, Mole coaxed and encouraged him,
and the rat went so far as to take him
by the shoulders and shake him. That nothing could overcome
his stage fright. They were all busily engaged on him
like watermen, applying the Royal Humane Society's regulations to a
case of long submersion. When the latch clicked, the door opened,
and the field mouse with the lantern reappeared, staggering under
the weight of his basket. There was no more talk
of play acting. Once the very real and solid contents
of the basket had been tumbled out on the table
under the generalship of rat, everybody was set to do
something or to fetch something. In a very few minutes,
supper was ready, and Mole, as he took the head
of the table, in a sort of a dream, saw
a late the barren board set thick with savory comforts,
saw his little friend's faces brighten and beam as they
fell to without delay, and then let himself loose, for
he was famished indeed on the provender so magically provided,
thinking what a happy homecoming this had turned out after all.
As they ate, they talked of old times and the field.
Mice gave him the local gossip up to date, and
answered as well as they could the hundred questions he
had to ask them. The rat said little or nothing,
only taking care that each guest had what he wanted
and plenty of it, and that Mole had no trouble
or anxiety about anything. They clattered off at last, very
grateful and showering wishes of the season, with their jacket
pockets stuffed with remembrances for the small brothers and sisters
at home. When the door had closed on the last
of them, and the chink of the lanterns had died away,
Mole and rat kicked the fire up, drew their chairs in,
brooded themselves and last nightcap of Mulldale, and discussed the
events of the long day. At last, the rat, with
a tremendous yawn, said Mole, old chap, I'm ready to drop.
Sleepy is simply not the word. Not your own bunk
over on that side. Very well, then, I'll take this.
What a ripping little house, this is everything so handy.
He clambered into his bunk and rolled himself well up
in the blankets and slumber gathered him forthwith as a
swathe of barley is folded into the arms of the
reaping machine. The weary mole was also glad to turn
in without delay, and soon had his head on his
pillow in great joy and contentment. But ere he closed
his eyes, he let them wander round his old room,
mellow in the glow of the firelight that played or
rested on familiar and friendly things which had long been
unconsciously a part of him, and now smilingly received him
back without rancor. He was now in just the frame
of mind that the tactful rat had quietly worked to
bring about in him. He saw clearly how plain and simple,
how narrow even it all was, but clearly too how
much it all meant to him, and the special value
of some such anchorage in one's existence. He did not
at all want to abandon the new life and its
splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air
all they offered him, and creep home and stay there.
The upper world was all too strong, it called to
him still even down there, and he knew he must
return to the larger stage. But it was good to
think he had this, to come back to, this place
which was all his own, these things which were so
glad to see him again, and could always be counted
upon for the same, simple welcome end of an extract
from The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Graham