[Illustration: Front Cover]

THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS

[Illustration: The Piper at the Gates of Dawn]

THE WIND
IN THE WILLOWS

BY
KENNETH GRAHAME

ILLUSTRATED BY
PAUL BRANSOM

[Illustration: Front Fly Leaf
showing the main characters enjoying a picnic]

[Illustration]

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
MCMXIII

Copyright, 1908, 1913, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published October, 1913

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. THE RIVER BANK 1

II. THE OPEN ROAD 27

III. THE WILD WOOD 53

IV. MR. BADGER 79

V. DULCE DOMUM 107

VI. MR. TOAD 139

VII. THE PIPER AT THE GATES OF DAWN 167

VIII. TOAD'S ADVENTURES 191

IX. WAYFARERS ALL 219

X. THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF TOAD 253

XI. "LIKE SUMMER TEMPESTS CAME HIS TEARS" 287

XII. THE RETURN OF ULYSSES 323

ILLUSTRATIONS

The Piper at the Gates of Dawn Frontispiece

Facing Page

It was the Water Rat 8

"Come on!" he said. "We shall just have to walk it" 50

In panic, he began to run 64

Through the Wild Wood and the snow 94

Toad was a helpless prisoner in the remotest dungeon 164

He lay prostrate in his misery on the floor 196

"It's a hard life, by all accounts," murmured the Rat 240

Dwelling chiefly on his own cleverness, and presence
of mind in emergencies 292

The Badger said, "Now then, follow me!" 326

I

THE RIVER BANK

The Mole had been working hard all morning, spring-cleaning his little underground home. First he used brooms, then dusters, then he climbed ladders and stood on chairs with a brush and a bucket of whitewash (a cheap white paint made from chalk). By the end, his throat and eyes were full of dust, his black fur was splattered white, and his back and arms ached from all the work.

Spring was in the air—above the ground, below it, and all around. Even Mole's dark little house felt its magic, filling him with a strange, happy restlessness. So it was no surprise that he suddenly threw his brush on the floor, shouted "Bother!" and "Oh, blow!" and "Forget spring-cleaning!"—and dashed outside without even grabbing his coat.

Something above ground was calling to him, and he couldn't ignore it. He hurried up the steep little tunnel that served as his own private driveway (the kind other animals might have made of gravel, if they lived above ground near the sun and fresh air). He scraped and scratched and squeezed his way upward, muttering to himself, "Up we go! Up we go!"—until at last, pop!, his nose popped out into the sunlight, and he tumbled into the warm grass of a big meadow.

"This is wonderful!" he said to himself. "So much better than whitewashing!" The sun felt hot on his fur, a soft breeze brushed his face, and after being shut up underground for so long, the singing birds sounded almost like shouts of joy to his unused ears. He jumped for pure happiness—it was spring, and there was no cleaning to do—and raced across the meadow until he reached the hedge on the far side.

"Hold on!" said an old rabbit guarding a gap in the hedge. "That'll be sixpence, if you want to use this private path!" But the impatient Mole knocked him right over and trotted on, teasing the other rabbits as they peeked nervously out of their holes to see what the commotion was. "Onion sauce! Onion sauce!" he called back mockingly, disappearing before they could think of a good reply. The rabbits then turned on each other, grumbling: "Why didn't you stop him?" "Well, why didn't you?" and so on—though of course, by then it was much too late, as it always is.

Everything felt almost too wonderful to be real. Mole wandered happily through the meadows, along the hedges, and through small groves of trees, seeing birds building nests, flowers opening, and new leaves pushing out everywhere—life bursting out on every side. Instead of feeling guilty (as if his conscience were whispering "whitewash!"), he simply felt joyful to be the only lazy creature among so many busy ones. After all, maybe the best part of a day off isn't resting yourself—it's watching everyone else hard at work.

Just when he thought his happiness couldn't get any better, he wandered to the edge of a wide, flowing river. He had never seen a river before. It moved like a sleek, playful animal—chasing, laughing, grabbing at things with a gurgle, then releasing them with a chuckle before rushing on to play with something new. Everything sparkled and shimmered; the water rustled, swirled, and bubbled. Mole was completely charmed. He trotted along its bank the way a small child trots beside an adult telling an exciting story, and when he finally got tired, he sat down while the river kept "talking"—a constant stream of the best stories in the world, flowing from deep within the earth on its way to the sea, which never gets tired of hearing them.

As he sat on the grass, gazing across the water, he noticed a dark hole in the opposite bank, just above the waterline. He began daydreaming about what a perfect little home it would make—a cozy, riverside house, safe above flood level and far from noise and dust. While he stared, something small and bright twinkled inside the hole, disappeared, then twinkled again like a tiny star. But surely it couldn't be a star in such a strange place, and it was too bright and small to be a glowworm. Then it winked at him—and he realized it was an eye. Slowly, a small face formed around it, the way a picture forms inside a frame.

It was a small brown face, with whiskers.

A serious, round face, with the same sparkle in its eye that had first caught his attention.

Small, neat ears, and smooth, silky hair.

It was the Water Rat!

The two animals studied each other carefully.

"Hello, Mole!" said the Water Rat.

"Hello, Rat!" said the Mole.

"Would you like to come over?" the Rat asked after a moment.

"Oh, it's easy to say that," Mole replied, a little grumpily, since he was new to rivers and didn't understand how one might cross.

The Rat didn't answer. Instead, he bent down, untied a rope, and pulled on it. Then he stepped lightly into a small boat that Mole hadn't even noticed—painted blue on the outside and white on the inside, just the right size for two. Mole's whole heart leapt toward it immediately, even though he didn't yet understand exactly what it was for.

The Rat rowed smartly across the water using his oars (called "sculling") and tied the boat up. Then he held out his paw as Mole nervously climbed down. "Lean on that!" he said. "Now then, step lively!" And to his own amazement and delight, Mole found himself actually sitting in the back of a real boat.

"What a wonderful day this has been!" he said, as the Rat pushed off and began rowing again. "You know, I've never been in a boat before in my whole life."

[Illustration: It was the Water Rat]

"What?" cried the Rat, astonished. "Never been in a—you never—well, I—what have you been doing with yourself?"

"Is it really so nice?" Mole asked shyly, though he was already convinced, leaning back and admiring the cushions, the oars, and all the interesting little details, feeling the boat rock gently beneath him.

"Nice? It's the only thing worth doing," the Water Rat said seriously, leaning forward to row. "Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing—absolutely nothing—half as good as simply messing about in boats. Simply messing," he repeated dreamily, "about—in—boats—messing—"

"Look out, Rat!" Mole shouted suddenly.

Too late. The boat crashed straight into the bank. The dreamy, joyful rower toppled backward, landing flat on his back at the bottom of the boat with his feet in the air.

"—about in boats, or with boats," the Rat continued calmly, picking himself back up with a cheerful laugh. "In them or out of them, it doesn't really matter. Nothing matters much—that's the whole charm of it. Whether you get where you're going, or somewhere else entirely, or nowhere at all, you're always busy without ever doing anything in particular. And once you're done, there's always something else to do, which you could do—but you'd probably be better off not bothering. Listen—if you've nothing else planned this morning, why don't we float down the river together and make a whole day of it?"

Mole wiggled his toes with pure happiness, breathed a deep, satisfied sigh, and sank back into the soft cushions. "What a day I'm having!" he said. "Let's go right now!"

"Wait just a minute, then," said the Rat. He looped the rope through a ring on his little dock, climbed up into his home above, and returned a short while later, struggling under the weight of a large wicker picnic basket.

"Put that under your feet," he told Mole, handing it down into the boat. Then he untied the rope and picked up the oars again.

"What's inside it?" asked Mole, wriggling with curiosity.

"There's cold chicken inside," the Rat answered simply, "cold ham, cold beef, pickles, salad, rolls, watercress sandwiches, potted meat, ginger beer, lemonade, soda water—"

"Oh, stop, stop!" cried Mole, thrilled. "That's more than enough!"

"Do you really think so?" the Rat asked, sounding surprised. "It's only what I always bring on these little trips—though the other animals are always telling me I'm stingy and pack far too little!"

Mole barely heard him. Caught up in this exciting new life, dazzled by the sparkling water, the ripples, the smells, and the sunshine, he trailed one paw in the river and drifted into daydreams, wide awake. The Water Rat, being the kind, good-natured fellow he was, rowed steadily on and let him be.

"I really like your outfit,