THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS - III. THE WILD WOOD

THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS

By Kenneth Grahame

Author Of “The Golden Age,” “Dream Days,” Etc.

III. THE WILD WOOD

The Mole had long wanted to make the acquaintance of the Badger. He
seemed, by all accounts, to be such an important personage and, though
rarely visible, to make his unseen influence felt by everybody about
the place. But whenever the Mole mentioned his wish to the Water Rat
he always found himself put off. ‘It’s all right,’ the Rat would say.
‘Badger’ll turn up some day or other--he’s always turning up--and then
I’ll introduce you. The best of fellows! But you must not only take him
AS you find him, but WHEN you find him.’

‘Couldn’t you ask him here dinner or something?’ said the Mole.

‘He wouldn’t come,’ replied the Rat simply. ‘Badger hates Society, and
invitations, and dinner, and all that sort of thing.’

‘Well, then, supposing we go and call on HIM?’ suggested the Mole.

‘O, I’m sure he wouldn’t like that at ALL,’ said the Rat, quite alarmed.
‘He’s so very shy, he’d be sure to be offended. I’ve never even ventured
to call on him at his own home myself, though I know him so well.
Besides, we can’t. It’s quite out of the question, because he lives in
the very middle of the Wild Wood.’

‘Well, supposing he does,’ said the Mole. ‘You told me the Wild Wood was
all right, you know.’

‘O, I know, I know, so it is,’ replied the Rat evasively. ‘But I think
we won’t go there just now. Not JUST yet. It’s a long way, and he
wouldn’t be at home at this time of year anyhow, and he’ll be coming
along some day, if you’ll wait quietly.’

The Mole had to be content with this. But the Badger never came along,
and every day brought its amusements, and it was not till summer was
long over, and cold and frost and miry ways kept them much indoors, and
the swollen river raced past outside their windows with a speed that
mocked at boating of any sort or kind, that he found his thoughts
dwelling again with much persistence on the solitary grey Badger, who
lived his own life by himself, in his hole in the middle of the Wild
Wood.

In the winter time the Rat slept a great deal, retiring early and rising
late. During his short day he sometimes scribbled poetry or did other
small domestic jobs about the house; and, of course, there were always
animals dropping in for a chat, and consequently there was a good deal
of story-telling and comparing notes on the past summer and all its
doings.

Such a rich chapter it had been, when one came to look back on it all!
With illustrations so numerous and so very highly coloured! The pageant
of the river bank had marched steadily along, unfolding itself in
scene-pictures that succeeded each other in stately procession. Purple
loosestrife arrived early, shaking luxuriant tangled locks along the
edge of the mirror whence its own face laughed back at it. Willow-herb,
tender and wistful, like a pink sunset cloud, was not slow to follow.
Comfrey, the purple hand-in-hand with the white, crept forth to take its
place in the line; and at last one morning the diffident and delaying
dog-rose stepped delicately on the stage, and one knew, as if
string-music had announced it in stately chords that strayed into a
gavotte, that June at last was here. One member of the company was still
awaited; the shepherd-boy for the nymphs to woo, the knight for whom the
ladies waited at the window, the prince that was to kiss the sleeping
summer back to life and love. But when meadow-sweet, debonair and
odorous in amber jerkin, moved graciously to his place in the group,
then the play was ready to begin.

And what a play it had been! Drowsy animals, snug in their holes
while wind and rain were battering at their doors, recalled still
keen mornings, an hour before sunrise, when the white mist, as yet
undispersed, clung closely along the surface of the water; then the
shock of the early plunge, the scamper along the bank, and the radiant
transformation of earth, air, and water, when suddenly the sun was with
them again, and grey was gold and colour was born and sprang out of the
earth once more. They recalled the languorous siesta of hot mid-day,
deep in green undergrowth, the sun striking through in tiny golden
shafts and spots; the boating and bathing of the afternoon, the rambles
along dusty lanes and through yellow cornfields; and the long, cool
evening at last, when so many threads were gathered up, so many
friendships rounded, and so many adventures planned for the morrow.
There was plenty to talk about on those short winter days when the
animals found themselves round the fire; still, the Mole had a good deal
of spare time on his hands, and so one afternoon, when the Rat in his
arm-chair before the blaze was alternately dozing and trying over rhymes
that wouldn’t fit, he formed the resolution to go out by himself and
explore the Wild Wood, and perhaps strike up an acquaintance with Mr.
Badger.

It was a cold still afternoon with a hard steely sky overhead, when he
slipped out of the warm parlour into the open air. The country lay bare
and entirely leafless around him, and he thought that he had never seen
so far and so intimately into the insides of things as on that winter
day when Nature was deep in her annual slumber and seemed to have kicked
the clothes off. Copses, dells, quarries and all hidden places, which
had been mysterious mines for exploration in leafy summer, now exposed
themselves and their secrets pathetically, and seemed to ask him to
overlook their shabby poverty for a while, till they could riot in rich
masquerade as before, and trick and entice him with the old deceptions.
It was pitiful in a way, and yet cheering--even exhilarating. He was
glad that he liked the country undecorated, hard, and stripped of its
finery. He had got down to the bare bones of it, and they were fine
and strong and simple. He did not want the warm clover and the play of
seeding grasses; the screens of quickset, the billowy drapery of beech
and elm seemed best away; and with great cheerfulness of spirit
he pushed on towards the Wild Wood, which lay before him low and
threatening, like a black reef in some still southern sea.

There was nothing to alarm him at first entry. Twigs crackled under his
feet, logs tripped him, funguses on stumps resembled caricatures, and
startled him for the moment by their likeness to something familiar
and far away; but that was all fun, and exciting. It led him on, and he
penetrated to where the light was less, and trees crouched nearer and
nearer, and holes made ugly mouths at him on either side.

Everything was very still now. The dusk advanced on him steadily,
rapidly, gathering in behind and before; and the light seemed to be
draining away like flood-water.

Then the faces began.

It was over his shoulder, and indistinctly, that he first thought he saw
a face; a little evil wedge-shaped face, looking out at him from a hole.
When he turned and confronted it, the thing had vanished.

He quickened his pace, telling himself cheerfully not to begin imagining
things, or there would be simply no end to it. He passed another hole,
and another, and another; and then--yes!--no!--yes! certainly a little
narrow face, with hard eyes, had flashed up for an instant from a hole,
and was gone. He hesitated--braced himself up for an effort and strode
on. Then suddenly, and as if it had been so all the time, every hole,
far and near, and there were hundreds of them, seemed to possess its
face, coming and going rapidly, all fixing on him glances of malice and
hatred: all hard-eyed and evil and sharp.

If he could only get away from the holes in the banks, he thought,
there would be no more faces. He swung off the path and plunged into the
untrodden places of the wood.

Then the whistling began.

Very faint and shrill it was, and far behind him, when first he heard
it; but somehow it made him hurry forward. Then, still very faint and
shrill, it sounded far ahead of him, and made him hesitate and want to
go back. As he halted in indecision it broke out on either side, and
seemed to be caught up and passed on throughout the whole length of the
wood to its farthest limit. They were up and alert and ready, evidently,
whoever they were! And he--he was alone, and unarmed, and far from any
help; and the night was closing in.

Then the pattering began.

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 fullness, 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.

The Rat looked very grave, and stood in deep thought for a minute or
two. Then he re-entered the house, strapped a belt round his waist,
shoved a brace of pistols into it, took up a stout cudgel that stood in
a corner of the hall, and set off for the Wild Wood at a smart pace.

It was already getting towards dusk when he reached the first fringe of
trees and plunged without hesitation into the wood, looking anxiously
on either side for any sign of his friend. Here and there wicked little
faces popped out of holes, but vanished immediately at sight of the
valorous animal, his pistols, and the great ugly cudgel in his grasp;
and the whistling and pattering, which he had heard quite plainly on his
first entry, died away and ceased, and all was very still. He made his
way manfully through the length of the wood, to its furthest edge; then,
forsaking all paths, he set himself to traverse it, laboriously working
over the whole ground, and all the time calling out cheerfully, ‘Moly,
Moly, Moly! Where are you? It’s me--it’s old Rat!’

He had patiently hunted through the wood for an hour or more, when at
last to his joy he heard a little answering cry. Guiding himself by the
sound, he made his way through the gathering darkness to the foot of
an old beech tree, with a hole in it, and from out of the hole came a
feeble voice, saying ‘Ratty! Is that really you?’

The Rat crept into the hollow, and there he found the Mole, exhausted
and still trembling. ‘O Rat!’ he cried, ‘I’ve been so frightened, you
can’t think!’

‘O, I quite understand,’ said the Rat soothingly. ‘You shouldn’t really
have gone and done it, Mole. I did my best to keep you from it. We
river-bankers, we hardly ever come here by ourselves. If we have to
come, we come in couples, at least; then we’re generally all right.
Besides, there are a hundred things one has to know, which we understand
all about and you don’t, as yet. I mean passwords, and signs, and
sayings which have power and effect, and plants you carry in your
pocket, and verses you repeat, and dodges and tricks you practise; all
simple enough when you know them, but they’ve got to be known if you’re
small, or you’ll find yourself in trouble. Of course if you were Badger
or Otter, it would be quite another matter.’

‘Surely the brave Mr. Toad wouldn’t mind coming here by himself, would
he?’ inquired the Mole.

‘Old Toad?’ said the Rat, laughing heartily. ‘He wouldn’t show his face
here alone, not for a whole hatful of golden guineas, Toad wouldn’t.’

The Mole was greatly cheered by the sound of the Rat’s careless
laughter, as well as by the sight of his stick and his gleaming pistols,
and he stopped shivering and began to feel bolder and more himself
again.

‘Now then,’ said the Rat presently, ‘we really must pull ourselves
together and make a start for home while there’s still a little light
left. It will never do to spend the night here, you understand. Too
cold, for one thing.’

‘Dear Ratty,’ said the poor Mole, ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’m simply
dead beat and that’s a solid fact. You MUST let me rest here a while
longer, and get my strength back, if I’m to get home at all.’

‘O, all right,’ said the good-natured Rat, ‘rest away. It’s pretty
nearly pitch dark now, anyhow; and there ought to be a bit of a moon
later.’

So the Mole got well into the dry leaves and stretched himself out, and
presently dropped off into sleep, though of a broken and troubled sort;
while the Rat covered himself up, too, as best he might, for warmth, and
lay patiently waiting, with a pistol in his paw.

When at last the Mole woke up, much refreshed and in his usual spirits,
the Rat said, ‘Now then! I’ll just take a look outside and see if
everything’s quiet, and then we really must be off.’

He went to the entrance of their retreat and put his head out. Then
the Mole heard him saying quietly to himself, ‘Hullo! hullo!
here--is--a--go!’

‘What’s up, Ratty?’ asked the Mole.

‘SNOW is up,’ replied the Rat briefly; ‘or rather, DOWN. It’s snowing
hard.’

The Mole came and crouched beside him, and, looking out, saw the wood
that had been so dreadful to him in quite a changed aspect. Holes,
hollows, pools, pitfalls, and other black menaces to the wayfarer
were vanishing fast, and a gleaming carpet of faery was springing up
everywhere, that looked too delicate to be trodden upon by rough feet.
A fine powder filled the air and caressed the cheek with a tingle in its
touch, and the black boles of the trees showed up in a light that seemed
to come from below.

‘Well, well, it can’t be helped,’ said the Rat, after pondering. ‘We
must make a start, and take our chance, I suppose. The worst of it is, I
don’t exactly know where we are. And now this snow makes everything look
so very different.’

It did indeed. The Mole would not have known that it was the same
wood. However, they set out bravely, and took the line that seemed
most promising, holding on to each other and pretending with invincible
cheerfulness that they recognized an old friend in every fresh tree that
grimly and silently greeted them, or saw openings, gaps, or paths with
a familiar turn in them, in the monotony of white space and black
tree-trunks that refused to vary.

An hour or two later--they had lost all count of time--they pulled
up, dispirited, weary, and hopelessly at sea, and sat down on a fallen
tree-trunk to recover their breath and consider what was to be done.
They were aching with fatigue and bruised with tumbles; they had fallen
into several holes and got wet through; the snow was getting so deep
that they could hardly drag their little legs through it, and the trees
were thicker and more like each other than ever. There seemed to be no
end to this wood, and no beginning, and no difference in it, and, worst
of all, no way out.

‘We can’t sit here very long,’ said the Rat. ‘We shall have to make
another push for it, and do something or other. The cold is too
awful for anything, and the snow will soon be too deep for us to wade
through.’ He peered about him and considered. ‘Look here,’ he went on,
‘this is what occurs to me. There’s a sort of dell down here in front of
us, where the ground seems all hilly and humpy and hummocky. We’ll make
our way down into that, and try and find some sort of shelter, a cave
or hole with a dry floor to it, out of the snow and the wind, and there
we’ll have a good rest before we try again, for we’re both of us pretty
dead beat. Besides, the snow may leave off, or something may turn up.’

So once more they got on their feet, and struggled down into the dell,
where they hunted about for a cave or some corner that was dry and
a protection from the keen wind and the whirling snow. They were
investigating one of the hummocky bits the Rat had spoken of, when
suddenly the Mole tripped up and fell forward on his face with a squeal.

‘O my leg!’ he cried. ‘O my poor shin!’ and he sat up on the snow and
nursed his leg in both his front paws.

‘Poor old Mole!’ said the Rat kindly.

‘You don’t seem to be having much luck to-day, do you? Let’s have a look
at the leg. Yes,’ he went on, going down on his knees to look, ‘you’ve
cut your shin, sure enough. Wait till I get at my handkerchief, and I’ll
tie it up for you.’

‘I must have tripped over a hidden branch or a stump,’ said the Mole
miserably. ‘O, my! O, my!’

‘It’s a very clean cut,’ said the Rat, examining it again attentively.
‘That was never done by a branch or a stump. Looks as if it was made
by a sharp edge of something in metal. Funny!’ He pondered awhile, and
examined the humps and slopes that surrounded them.

‘Well, never mind what done it,’ said the Mole, forgetting his grammar
in his pain. ‘It hurts just the same, whatever done it.’

But the Rat, after carefully tying up the leg with his handkerchief, had
left him and was busy scraping in the snow. He scratched and shovelled
and explored, all four legs working busily, while the Mole waited
impatiently, remarking at intervals, ‘O, COME on, Rat!’

Suddenly the Rat cried ‘Hooray!’ and then ‘Hooray-oo-ray-oo-ray-oo-ray!’
and fell to executing a feeble jig in the snow.

‘What HAVE you found, Ratty?’ asked the Mole, still nursing his leg.

‘Come and see!’ said the delighted Rat, as he jigged on.

The Mole hobbled up to the spot and had a good look.

‘Well,’ he said at last, slowly, ‘I SEE it right enough. Seen the same
sort of thing before, lots of times. Familiar object, I call it. A
door-scraper! Well, what of it? Why dance jigs around a door-scraper?’

‘But don’t you see what it MEANS, you--you dull-witted animal?’ cried
the Rat impatiently.

‘Of course I see what it means,’ replied the Mole. ‘It simply means that
some VERY careless and forgetful person has left his door-scraper lying
about in the middle of the Wild Wood, JUST where it’s SURE to trip
EVERYBODY up. Very thoughtless of him, I call it. When I get home
I shall go and complain about it to--to somebody or other, see if I
don’t!’

‘O, dear! O, dear!’ cried the Rat, in despair at his obtuseness. ‘Here,
stop arguing and come and scrape!’ And he set to work again and made the
snow fly in all directions around him.

After some further toil his efforts were rewarded, and a very shabby
door-mat lay exposed to view.

‘There, what did I tell you?’ exclaimed the Rat in great triumph.

‘Absolutely nothing whatever,’ replied the Mole, with perfect
truthfulness. ‘Well now,’ he went on, ‘you seem to have found another
piece of domestic litter, done for and thrown away, and I suppose you’re
perfectly happy. Better go ahead and dance your jig round that if you’ve
got to, and get it over, and then perhaps we can go on and not waste
any more time over rubbish-heaps. Can we EAT a doormat? or sleep under a
door-mat? Or sit on a door-mat and sledge home over the snow on it, you
exasperating rodent?’

‘Do--you--mean--to--say,’ cried the excited Rat, ‘that this door-mat
doesn’t TELL you anything?’

‘Really, Rat,’ said the Mole, quite pettishly, ‘I think we’d had enough
of this folly. Who ever heard of a door-mat TELLING anyone anything?
They simply don’t do it. They are not that sort at all. Door-mats know
their place.’

‘Now look here, you--you thick-headed beast,’ replied the Rat, really
angry, ‘this must stop. Not another word, but scrape--scrape and scratch
and dig and hunt round, especially on the sides of the hummocks, if you
want to sleep dry and warm to-night, for it’s our last chance!’

The Rat attacked a snow-bank beside them with ardour, probing with
his cudgel everywhere and then digging with fury; and the Mole scraped
busily too, more to oblige the Rat than for any other reason, for his
opinion was that his friend was getting light-headed.

Some ten minutes’ hard work, and the point of the Rat’s cudgel struck
something that sounded hollow. He worked till he could get a paw through
and feel; then called the Mole to come and help him. Hard at it went the
two animals, till at last the result of their labours stood full in view
of the astonished and hitherto incredulous Mole.

In the side of what had seemed to be a snow-bank stood a solid-looking
little door, painted a dark green. An iron bell-pull hung by the side,
and below it, on a small brass plate, neatly engraved in square capital
letters, they could read by the aid of moonlight MR. BADGER.

The Mole fell backwards on the snow from sheer surprise and delight.
‘Rat!’ he cried in penitence, ‘you’re a wonder! A real wonder, that’s
what you are. I see it all now! You argued it out, step by step, in that
wise head of yours, from the very moment that I fell and cut my shin,
and you looked at the cut, and at once your majestic mind said to
itself, “Door-scraper!” And then you turned to and found the very
door-scraper that done it! Did you stop there? No. Some people would
have been quite satisfied; but not you. Your intellect went on working.
“Let me only just find a door-mat,” says you to yourself, “and my theory
is proved!” And of course you found your door-mat. You’re so clever, I
believe you could find anything you liked. “Now,” says you, “that door
exists, as plain as if I saw it. There’s nothing else remains to be done
but to find it!” Well, I’ve read about that sort of thing in books, but
I’ve never come across it before in real life. You ought to go where
you’ll be properly appreciated. You’re simply wasted here, among us
fellows. If I only had your head, Ratty----’

‘But as you haven’t,’ interrupted the Rat, rather unkindly, ‘I suppose
you’re going to sit on the snow all night and TALK? Get up at once and
hang on to that bell-pull you see there, and ring hard, as hard as you
can, while I hammer!’

While the Rat attacked the door with his stick, the Mole sprang up
at the bell-pull, clutched it and swung there, both feet well off
the ground, and from quite a long way off they could faintly hear a
deep-toned bell respond.

Posted in: ***English Literature***