THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS - V. DULCE DOMUM

THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS

By Kenneth Grahame

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

V. DULCE DOMUM

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 wall 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.

Posted in: ***English Literature***