The sheep ran huddling together against the hurdles, blowing out
thin nostrils and stamping with delicate fore-feet, their heads
thrown back and a light steam rising from the crowded sheep-pen
into the frosty air, as the two animals hastened by in high
spirits, with much chatter and laughter. They were returning
across country after a long day's outing with Otter, hunting and
exploring on the wide uplands where certain streams tributary to
their own River had their first small beginnings; and the shades
of the short winter day were closing in on them, and they had
still some distance to go. Plodding at random across the plough,
they had heard the sheep and had made for them; and now, leading
from the sheep-pen, they found a beaten track that made walking a
lighter business, and responded, moreover, to that small
inquiring something which all animals carry inside them, saying
unmistakably, ‘Yes, quite right; THIS leads home!'
‘It looks as if we were coming to a village,' said the Mole
somewhat dubiously, slackening his pace, as the track, that had
in time become a path and then had developed into a lane, now
handed them over to the charge of a well-metalled road. The
animals did not hold with villages, and their own highways,
thickly frequented as they were, took an independent course,
regardless of church, post office, or public-house.
‘Oh, never mind!' said the Rat. ‘At this season of the year
they're all safe indoors by this time, sitting round the fire;
men, women, and children, dogs and cats and all. We shall slip
through all right, without any bother or unpleasantness, and we
can have a look at them through their windows if you like, and
see what they're doing.'
The rapid nightfall of mid-December had quite beset the little
village as they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall
of powdery snow. Little was visible but squares of a dusky
orange-red on either side of the street, where the firelight
or lamplight of each cottage overflowed through the casements
into the dark world without. Most of the low latticed windows
were innocent of blinds, and to the lookers-in from outside, the
inmates, gathered round the tea-table, absorbed in handiwork, or
talking with laughter and gesture, had each that happy grace
which is the last thing the skilled actor shall capture--the
natural grace which goes with perfect unconsciousness of
observation. Moving at will from one theatre to another, the two
spectators, so far from home themselves, had something of
wistfulness in their eyes as they watched a cat being stroked, a
sleepy child picked up and huddled off to bed, or a tired man
stretch and knock out his pipe on the end of a smouldering log.
But it was from one little window, with its blind drawn down, a
mere blank transparency on the night, that the sense of home and
the little curtained world within walls--the larger stressful
world of outside Nature shut out and forgotten--most pulsated.
Close against the white blind hung a bird-cage, clearly
silhouetted, every wire, perch, and appurtenance distinct and
recognisable, even to yesterday's dull-edged lump of sugar. On
the middle perch the fluffy occupant, head tucked well into
feathers, seemed so near to them as to be easily stroked, had
they tried; even the delicate tips of his plumped-out plumage
pencilled plainly on the illuminated screen. As they looked, the
sleepy little fellow stirred uneasily, woke, shook himself, and
raised his head. They could see the gape of his tiny beak as he
yawned in a bored sort of way, looked round, and then settled his
head into his back again, while the ruffled feathers gradually
subsided into perfect stillness. Then a gust of bitter wind took
them in the back of the neck, a small sting of frozen sleet on
the skin woke them as from a dream, and they knew their toes to
be cold and their legs tired, and their own home distant a weary
way.
Once beyond the village, where the cottages ceased abruptly, on
either side of the road they could smell through the darkness the
friendly fields again; and they braced themselves for the last
long stretch, the home stretch, the stretch that we know is bound
to end, some time, in the rattle of the door-latch, the sudden
firelight, and the sight of familiar things greeting us as
long-absent travellers from far over-sea. They plodded along
steadily and silently, each of them thinking his own thoughts.
The Mole's ran a good deal on supper, as it was pitch-dark, and
it was all a strange country for him as far as he knew, and he
was following obediently in the wake of the Rat, leaving the
guidance entirely to him. As for the Rat, he was walking a
little way ahead, as his habit was, his shoulders humped, his
eyes fixed on the straight grey road in front of him; so he did
not notice poor Mole when suddenly the summons reached him, and
took him like an electric shock.
We others, who have long lost the more subtle of the physical
senses, have not even proper terms to express an animal's inter-
communications with his surroundings, living or otherwise, and
have only the word ‘smell,' for instance, to include the whole
range of delicate thrills which murmur in the nose of the animal
night and day, summoning, warning? inciting, repelling. It was
one of these mysterious fairy calls from out the void that
suddenly reached Mole in the darkness, making him tingle through
and through with its very familiar appeal, even while yet he
could not clearly remember what it was. He stopped dead in his
tracks, his nose searching hither and thither in its efforts to
recapture the fine filament, the telegraphic current, that had so
strongly moved him. A moment, and he had caught it again; and
with it this time came recollection in fullest flood.
Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those
soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands
pulling and tugging, all one way! Why, it must be quite close by
him at that moment, his old home that he had hurriedly forsaken
and never sought again, that day when he first found the river!
And now it was sending out its scouts and its messengers to
capture him and bring him in. Since his escape on that bright
morning he had hardly given it a thought, so absorbed had he been
in his new life, in all its pleasures, its surprises, its fresh
and captivating experiences. Now, with a rush of old memories,
how clearly it stood up before him, in the darkness! Shabby
indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he
had made for himself, the home he had been so happy to get back
to after his day's work. And the home had been happy with
him, too, evidently, and was missing him, and wanted him back,
and was telling him so, through his nose, sorrowfully,
reproachfully, but with no bitterness or anger; only with
plaintive reminder that it was there, and wanted him.
The call was clear, the summons was plain. He must obey it
instantly, and go. ‘Ratty!' he called, full of joyful
excitement, ‘hold on! Come back! I want you, quick!'
‘Oh, COME along, Mole, do!' replied the Rat cheerfully, still
plodding along.
‘PLEASE stop, Ratty!' pleaded the poor Mole, in anguish of
heart. ‘You don't understand! It's my home, my old home! I've
just come across the smell of it, and it's close by here, really
quite close. And I MUST go to it, I must, I must! Oh, come
back, Ratty! Please, please come back!'
The Rat was by this time very far ahead, too far to hear clearly
what the Mole was calling, too far to catch the sharp note of
painful appeal in his voice. And he was much taken up with the
weather, for he too could smell something--something suspiciously
like approaching snow.
‘Mole, we mustn't stop now, really!' he called back. ‘We'll
come for it to-morrow, whatever it is you've found. But I
daren't stop now--it's late, and the snow's coming on again, and
I'm not sure of the way! And I want your nose, Mole, so come on
quick, there's a good fellow!' And the Rat pressed forward on
his way without waiting for an answer.
Poor Mole stood alone in the road, his heart torn asunder, and a
big sob gathering, gathering, somewhere low down inside him, to
leap up to the surface presently, he knew, in passionate escape.
But even under such a test as this his loyalty to his friend
stood firm. Never for a moment did he dream of abandoning him.
Meanwhile, the wafts from his old home pleaded, whispered,
conjured, and finally claimed him imperiously. He dared not
tarry longer within their magic circle. With a wrench that tore
his very heartstrings he set his face down the road and followed
submissively in the track of the Rat, while faint, thin little
smells, still dogging his retreating nose, reproached him for his
new friendship and his callous forgetfulness.
With an effort he caught up to the unsuspecting Rat, who began
chattering cheerfully about what they would do when they got
back, and how jolly a fire of logs in the parlour would be,
and what a supper he meant to eat; never noticing his companion's
silence and distressful state of mind. At last, however, when
they had gone some considerable way further, and were passing
some tree-stumps at the edge of a copse that bordered the road,
he stopped and said kindly, ‘Look here, Mole old chap, you seem
dead tired. No talk left in you, and your feet dragging like
lead. We'll sit down here for a minute and rest. The snow has
held off so far, and the best part of our journey is over.'
The Mole subsided forlornly on a tree-stump and tried to control
himself, for he felt it surely coming. The sob he had fought
with so long refused to be beaten. Up and up, it forced its way
to the air, and then another, and another, and others thick and
fast; till poor Mole at last gave up the struggle, and cried
freely and helplessly and openly, now that he knew it was all
over and he had lost what he could hardly be said to have found.
The Rat, astonished and dismayed at the violence of Mole's
paroxysm of grief, did not dare to speak for a while. At last he
said, very quietly and sympathetically, ‘What is it, old
fellow? Whatever can be the matter? Tell us your trouble, and
let me see what I can do.'
Poor Mole found it difficult to get any words out between the
upheavals of his chest that followed one upon another so quickly
and held back speech and choked it as it came. ‘I know it's a--
shabby, dingy little place,' he sobbed forth at last, brokenly:
‘not like--your cosy quarters--or Toad's beautiful hall--or
Badger's great house--but it was my own little home--and I was
fond of it--and I went away and forgot all about it--and then I
smelt it suddenly--on the road, when I called and you wouldn't
listen, Rat--and everything came back to me with a rush--and I
WANTED it!--O dear, O dear!--and when you WOULDN'T turn
back, Ratty--and I had to leave it, though I was smelling it all
the time--I thought my heart would break.--We might have just
gone and had one look at it, Ratty--only one look--it was close
by--but you wouldn't turn back, Ratty, you wouldn't turn back! O
dear, O dear!'
Recollection brought fresh waves of sorrow, and sobs again
took full charge of him, preventing further speech.
The Rat stared straight in front of him, saying nothing, only
patting Mole gently on the shoulder. After a time he muttered
gloomily, ‘I see it all now! What a PIG I have been! A pig--
that's me! Just a pig--a plain pig!'
He waited till Mole's sobs became gradually less stormy and more
rhythmical; he waited till at last sniffs were frequent and sobs
only intermittent. Then he rose from his seat, and, remarking
carelessly, ‘Well, now we'd really better be getting on, old
chap!' set off up the road again, over the toilsome way they had
come.
‘Wherever are you (hic) going to (hic), Ratty?' cried the tearful
Mole, looking up in alarm.
‘We're going to find that home of yours, old fellow,' replied the
Rat pleasantly; ‘so you had better come along, for it will take
some finding, and we shall want your nose.'
‘Oh, come back, Ratty, do!' cried the Mole, getting up and
hurrying after him. ‘It's no good, I tell you! It's too late,
and too dark, and the place is too far off, and the snow's
coming! And--and I never meant to let you know I was feeling
that way about it--it was all an accident and a mistake! And
think of River Bank, and your supper!'
‘Hang River Bank, and supper too!' said the Rat heartily. ‘I
tell you, I'm going to find this place now, if I stay out all
night. So cheer up, old chap, and take my arm, and we'll very
soon be back there again.'
Still snuffling, pleading, and reluctant, Mole suffered himself
to be dragged back along the road by his imperious companion, who
by a flow of cheerful talk and anecdote endeavoured to beguile
his spirits back and make the weary way seem shorter. When at
last it seemed to the Rat that they must be nearing that part of
the road where the Mole had been ‘held up,' he said, ‘Now, no
more talking. Business! Use your nose, and give your mind to
it.'
They moved on in silence for some little way, when suddenly the
Rat was conscious, through his arm that was linked in Mole's, of
a faint sort of electric thrill that was passing down that
animal's body. Instantly he disengaged himself, fell back a
pace, and waited, all attention.
The signals were coming through!
Mole stood a moment rigid, while his uplifted nose, quivering
slightly, felt the air.
Then a short, quick run forward--a fault--a check--a try back;
and then a slow, steady, confident advance.
The Rat, much excited, kept close to his heels as the Mole, with
something of the air of a sleep-walker, crossed a dry ditch,
scrambled through a hedge, and nosed his way over a field open
and trackless and bare in the faint starlight.
Suddenly, without giving warning, he dived; but the Rat was on
the alert, and promptly followed him down the tunnel to which his
unerring nose had faithfully led him.
It was close and airless, and the earthy smell was strong, and it
seemed a long time to Rat ere the passage ended and he could
stand erect and stretch and shake himself. The Mole struck a
match, and by its light the Rat saw that they were standing in an
open space, neatly swept and sanded underfoot, and directly
facing them was Mole's little front door, with ‘Mole End'
painted, in Gothic lettering, over the bell-pull at the side.
Mole reached down a lantern from a nail on the wail and lit it,
and the Rat, looking round him, saw that they were in a sort of
fore-court. A garden-seat stood on one side of the door, and on
the other a roller; for the Mole, who was a tidy animal when at
home, could not stand having his ground kicked up by other
animals into little runs that ended in earth-heaps. On the walls
hung wire baskets with ferns in them, alternating with brackets
carrying plaster statuary--Garibaldi, and the infant Samuel, and
Queen Victoria, and other heroes of modern Italy. Down on one
side of the forecourt ran a skittle-alley, with benches along it
and little wooden tables marked with rings that hinted at beer-
mugs. In the middle was a small round pond containing gold-fish
and surrounded by a cockle-shell border. Out of the centre of
the pond rose a fanciful erection clothed in more cockle-shells
and topped by a large silvered glass ball that reflected
everything all wrong and had a very pleasing effect.
Mole's face-beamed at the sight of all these objects so dear to
him, and he hurried Rat through the door, lit a lamp in the
hall, and took one glance round his old home. He saw the dust
lying thick on everything, saw the cheerless, deserted look of
the long-neglected house, and its narrow, meagre dimensions, its
worn and shabby contents--and collapsed again on a hall-chair,
his nose to his paws. ‘O Ratty!' he cried dismally, ‘why ever
did I do it? Why did I bring you to this poor, cold little
place, on a night like this, when you might have been at River
Bank by this time, toasting your toes before a blazing fire, with
all your own nice things about you!'
The Rat paid no heed to his doleful self-reproaches. He was
running here and there, opening doors, inspecting rooms and
cupboards, and lighting lamps and candles and sticking them, up
everywhere. ‘What a capital little house this is!' he called out
cheerily. ‘So compact! So well planned! Everything here and
everything in its place! We'll make a jolly night of it. The
first thing we want is a good fire; I'll see to that--I always
know where to find things. So this is the parlour? Splendid!
Your own idea, those little sleeping-bunks in the wall? Capital!
Now, I'll fetch the wood and the coals, and you get a
duster, Mole--you'll find one in the drawer of the kitchen
table--and try and smarten things up a bit. Bustle about, old
chap!'
Encouraged by his inspiriting companion, the Mole roused himself
and dusted and polished with energy and heartiness, while the
Rat, running to and fro with armfuls of fuel, soon had a cheerful
blaze roaring up the chimney. He hailed the Mole to come and
warm himself; but Mole promptly had another fit of the blues,
dropping down on a couch in dark despair and burying his face in
his duster. ‘Rat,' he moaned, ‘how about your supper, you poor,
cold, hungry, weary animal? I've nothing to give you--nothing--
not a crumb!'
‘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 neighbourhood. Rouse
yourself! pull yourself together, and come with me and forage.'
They went and foraged accordingly, hunting through every cupboard
and turning out every drawer. The result 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 pate de foie 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 home-like, 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-cup, 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 fore-court 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 a-waiting----'
‘What's up?' inquired the Rat, pausing in his labours.
‘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 come to Mole
End last of all; and I used to give them hot drinks, and supper
too sometimes, when I could afford it. It will 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 a seasonable one, that met their eyes
when they flung the door open. In the fore-court, lit by the dim
rays of a horn lantern, some eight or ten little fieldmice stood
in a semicircle, red worsted comforters round their throats,
their fore-paws 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 uprose 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 a star has led us on,
Raining bliss and benison--
Bliss to-morrow and more anon,
Joy for every morning!
Goodman 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 NOWELL?
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 travelled 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--O,
Ratty!' he cried in despair, plumping down on a seat, with tears
impending. ‘Whatever are we doing? We've 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 Buggins's, for I won't have any other--no, only the
best--if you can't get it there, try somewhere else--yes, of
course, home-made, no tinned stuff--well then, do the best you
can!' Finally, there was a chink of coin passing from paw to
paw, the field-mouse was provided with an ample basket for his
purchases, 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 a-carolling 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 shall
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 corsair, 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, giggled 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;
but 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 lately barren board set thick with savoury comforts;
saw his little friends' 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 home-coming 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,
brewed themselves a last nightcap of mulled ale, 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. That 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 also was 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
rancour. 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 and 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.
VI