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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
fulness
,
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
.
