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"
Come
along
,
Rat
!
"
called
the
Mole
.
"
Think
of
poor
Otter
,
waiting
up
there
by
the
ford
!
"
Portly
had
soon
been
comforted
by
the
promise
of
a
treat
--
a
jaunt
on
the
river
in
Mr.
Rat
's
real
boat
;
and
the
two
animals
conducted
him
to
the
water
's
side
,
placed
him
securely
between
them
in
the
bottom
of
the
boat
,
and
paddled
off
down
the
backwater
.
The
sun
was
fully
up
by
now
,
and
hot
on
them
,
birds
sang
lustily
and
without
restraint
,
and
flowers
smiled
and
nodded
from
either
bank
,
but
somehow
--
so
thought
the
animals
--
with
less
of
richness
and
blaze
of
colour
than
they
seemed
to
remember
seeing
quite
recently
somewhere
--
they
wondered
where
.
The
main
river
reached
again
,
they
turned
the
boat
's
head
upstream
,
towards
the
point
where
they
knew
their
friend
was
keeping
his
lonely
vigil
.
As
they
drew
near
the
familiar
ford
,
the
Mole
took
the
boat
in
to
the
bank
,
and
they
lifted
Portly
out
and
set
him
on
his
legs
on
the
tow-path
,
gave
him
his
marching
orders
and
a
friendly
farewell
pat
on
the
back
,
and
shoved
out
into
mid-stream
.
They
watched
the
little
animal
as
he
waddled
along
the
path
contentedly
and
with
importance
;
watched
him
till
they
saw
his
muzzle
suddenly
lift
and
his
waddle
break
into
a
clumsy
amble
as
he
quickened
his
pace
with
shrill
whines
and
wriggles
of
recognition
.
Looking
up
the
river
,
they
could
see
Otter
start
up
,
tense
and
rigid
,
from
out
of
the
shallows
where
he
crouched
in
dumb
patience
,
and
could
hear
his
amazed
and
joyous
bark
as
he
bounded
up
through
the
osiers
on
to
the
path
.
Then
the
Mole
,
with
a
strong
pull
on
one
oar
,
swung
the
boat
round
and
let
the
full
stream
bear
them
down
again
whither
it
would
,
their
quest
now
happily
ended
.
"
I
feel
strangely
tired
,
Rat
,
"
said
the
Mole
,
leaning
wearily
over
his
oars
,
as
the
boat
drifted
.
"
It
's
being
up
all
night
,
you
'll
say
,
perhaps
;
but
that
's
nothing
.
We
do
as
much
half
the
nights
of
the
week
,
at
this
time
of
the
year
.
No
;
I
feel
as
if
I
had
been
through
something
very
exciting
and
rather
terrible
,
and
it
was
just
over
;
and
yet
nothing
particular
has
happened
.
"
"
Or
something
very
surprising
and
splendid
and
beautiful
,
"
murmured
the
Rat
,
leaning
back
and
closing
his
eyes
.
"
I
feel
just
as
you
do
,
Mole
;
simply
dead
tired
,
though
not
body-tired
.
It
's
lucky
we
've
got
the
stream
with
us
,
to
take
us
home
.
Is
n't
it
jolly
to
feel
the
sun
again
,
soaking
into
one
's
bones
!
And
hark
to
the
wind
playing
in
the
reeds
!
"
"
It
's
like
music
--
far-away
music
,
"
said
the
Mole
,
nodding
drowsily
.
"
So
I
was
thinking
,
"
murmured
the
Rat
,
dreamful
and
languid
.
"
Dance-music
--
the
lilting
sort
that
runs
on
without
a
stop
--
but
with
words
in
it
,
too
--
it
passes
into
words
and
out
of
them
again
--
I
catch
them
at
intervals
--
then
it
is
dance-music
once
more
,
and
then
nothing
but
the
reeds
'
soft
thin
whispering
.
"
"
You
hear
better
than
I
,
"
said
the
Mole
sadly
.
"
I
can
not
catch
the
words
.
