The Wind in the Willows

[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 spent the whole morning doing spring cleaning in his small underground home—first with brooms, then with dust rags, then balanced on ladders and chairs with a brush and a bucket of whitewash (a thin white paint used to freshen up walls). By now his throat and eyes were full of dust, his black fur was splattered white, and his back and arms ached from the effort. Meanwhile, spring was stirring everywhere—in the air above, in the soil below, all around him—and its restless, longing energy even crept into his dim little house. So it was no surprise that he suddenly threw his brush to the floor, muttered "Bother!" and "Oh, blow it!" and "Forget spring cleaning!"—and dashed outside without even grabbing his coat. Something overhead was calling him, impossible to ignore, and he headed for the steep little tunnel that served him the way a gravel driveway serves animals who live closer to daylight. He scraped and clawed and squeezed his way upward, working his small paws hard and muttering, "Up we go! Up we go!"—until at last, with a pop, his nose broke into the sunlight, and he found himself tumbling into the warm grass of a wide meadow.

"This is wonderful!" he said to himself. "Much better than whitewashing!" The sun warmed his fur, a soft breeze cooled his forehead, and after being shut away underground for so long, the cheerful singing of birds sounded almost like shouting to his dulled ears. Bursting with the joy of being alive—and of enjoying spring without having to clean for it—he bounded on all fours across the meadow until he reached the hedge on the far side.

"Hold on!" said an elderly rabbit guarding a gap in the hedge. "That'll be sixpence to use this private path!" But the Mole, impatient and unimpressed, knocked him over without a second thought and trotted on past the hedge, teasing the other rabbits as they poked their heads out of their burrows to see what the commotion was about. "Onion sauce! Onion sauce!" he called mockingly, and was gone before any of them could come up with a good comeback. They all turned on each other instead. "How could you be so slow-witted! Why didn't you say something—" "Well, why didn't you—" "You should have reminded him—" and so on, the way animals always do when it's already too late to matter.

Everything felt almost too wonderful to be real. The Mole wandered happily through meadows, along hedgerows, and through small groves of trees, and everywhere he looked, birds were building nests, flowers were opening, and new leaves were pushing out—everything alive, busy, and purposeful. Instead of feeling guilty, as though his conscience were nagging him to go back and whitewash, he only felt delighted to be the one idle creature among all these industrious neighbors. After all, maybe the best part of a day off isn't relaxing yourself so much as watching everyone else hard at work.

He thought his happiness couldn't get any better when, wandering without any particular direction, he suddenly found himself at the edge of a full, flowing river. He had never seen a river before—this sleek, winding, powerful creature, chasing itself along, chuckling as it gripped things and laughing as it let them go, only to fling itself onto new playthings that broke free and were caught again. Everything trembled and shimmered—glints and sparkles, ripples and swirls, murmurs and bubbles. The Mole was completely captivated. He followed alongside the river the way a small child follows a grown-up who's telling a thrilling story; and when he finally grew tired, he sat down on the bank while the river kept talking to him, spinning out an endless string of the best stories in the world, carried from deep within the earth to be told at last to the endlessly hungry sea.

Sitting in the grass and gazing across the water, he noticed a dark hole in the opposite bank, just above the waterline, and found himself imagining what a cozy home it would make for some small, simple creature who wanted a charming riverside address safely above flood level, away from noise and dust. As he stared, something small and bright seemed to twinkle deep inside the hole, disappear, then twinkle again like a tiny star. But it couldn't really be a star in such an odd spot, and it was too shiny and small to be a glow-worm. Then it winked at him—and he realized it was an eye. Slowly, a small face took shape around it, like a picture forming inside a frame.

A brown little face, with whiskers.

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

Small, neat ears, and thick, silky fur.

It was the Water Rat!

The two animals stared at each other warily.

"Hello, Mole!" said the Water Rat.

"Hello, Rat!" said the Mole.

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

"It's easy for you to say that," the Mole answered, a little grumpily, since he was new to rivers and didn't yet understand how they worked.

The Rat didn't respond right away. Instead, he bent down, untied a rope, pulled on it, and stepped lightly into a small boat that the Mole hadn't even noticed. It was painted blue on the outside and white inside, just big enough for two animals—and the Mole fell in love with it instantly, even though he didn't yet grasp what it was for.

The Rat rowed briskly across the water and tied the boat up. Then he reached out a paw as the Mole stepped carefully down. "Grab hold of that," he said. "Now then—step lively!" And the Mole, astonished and thrilled, found himself sitting in the back of an actual boat.

"What an amazing day this has been!" he said, as the Rat pushed off and picked up the oars again. "You know, I've never been in a boat before in my whole life."

[Illustration: _It was the Water Rat_]

"What?" the Rat cried, staring in disbelief. "Never been in a—you never—well, I—what have you been doing all this time, then?"

"Is it really that wonderful?" the Mole asked shyly, though he was already convinced it must be, as he leaned back and admired the cushions, the oars, the metal fittings that held them, and everything else about the boat, feeling it sway gently beneath him.

"Wonderful? It's the only thing worth doing," the Water Rat said solemnly, leaning forward to row. "Believe me, my young friend, there's nothing—nothing at all—half as satisfying as simply messing about in boats. Simply messing about," he went on dreamily, "messing—about—in—boats; messing—"

"Look out, Rat!" the Mole cried suddenly.

Too late. The boat rammed straight into the bank. The dreaming, joyful rower toppled backward, landing flat in 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 good-natured laugh. "In them or out of them, it makes no difference. Nothing really matters, that's the whole charm of it. Whether you get somewhere or don't, whether you reach where you meant to go or end up somewhere else entirely, or never arrive anywhere at all—you're always busy, yet never actually accomplishing anything in particular. And once you've finished not accomplishing it, there's always something else you could do instead—though you're usually better off not doing that either. Listen—if you've truly got nothing else planned this morning, why don't we go down the river together and make a full day of it?"

The Mole wiggled his toes from pure happiness, took a deep, contented breath, and sank blissfully into the soft cushions. "What a day I'm having!" he said. "Let's go right now!"

"Hang on a moment, then," said the Rat. He looped the rope—called a painter—through a ring on his little dock, climbed up into his home above, and returned shortly, struggling under the weight of a large wicker picnic basket.

"Stick that under your feet," he told the Mole, handing it down into the boat. Then he untied the rope and took up the oars once more.

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

"There's cold chicken in it," the Rat answered simply, "coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssandwiches
pottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater—"

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

"Do you really