Wind in The Willows Chapter 1
Wind in The Willows Chapter 1
Wind in The Willows Chapter 1
The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-
cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on
ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till
he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over
his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving
in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating
even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent
and longing. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down
his brush on the floor, said ‘Bother!’ and ‘O blow!’ and also ‘Hang
spring-cleaning!’ and bolted out of the house without even waiting to
put on his coat. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and
he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the
gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are
nearer to the sun and air. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled
and scrooged and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched
and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to
himself, ‘Up we go! Up we go!’ till at last, pop! his snout came out
into the sunlight, and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a
great meadow.
‘Hold up!’ said an elderly rabbit at the gap. ‘Sixpence for the
privilege of passing by the private road!’ He was bowled over in an
instant by the impatient and contemptuous Mole, who trotted along
the side of the hedge chaffing the other rabbits as they peeped
hurriedly from their holes to see what the row was about. ‘Onion-
sauce! Onion-sauce!’ he remarked jeeringly, and was gone before
they could think of a thoroughly satisfactory reply. Then they all
started grumbling at each other. ‘How STUPID you are! Why didn’t
you tell him——’ ‘Well, why didn’t YOU say——’ ‘You might have
reminded him——’ and so on, in the usual way; but, of course, it was
then much too late, as is always the case.
It all seemed too good to be true. Hither and thither through the
meadows he rambled busily, along the hedgerows, across the copses,
finding everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves
thrusting—everything happy, and progressive, and occupied. And
instead of having an uneasy conscience pricking him and whispering
‘whitewash!’ he somehow could only feel how jolly it was to be the
only idle dog among all these busy citizens. After all, the best part of
a holiday is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all
the other fellows busy working.