5
Dulce Domumag
The sheep ran huddling together against the
hurdles, blowing out thin nostrils and stamping with delicate
forefeet, 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’re 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.
‘O, 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
recognizable, 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 around, 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 oversea. 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 to 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 as 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!’
‘O, 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! O, 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 tomorrow, 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 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 ah 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.’
‘O, 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 the
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,ai 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,2 and other
heroes of modern Italy. Down one side of the fore-court 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 goldfish 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 in 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 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 tonight!’
‘No bread!’ groaned the Mole dolorously; ‘no
butter, no—’
‘No pate de foie gras,aj 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 brought 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—‘No, 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 af ford 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
field-mice 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.ak
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!
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!
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 tomorrow and more anon,
Joy for every morning!
Sudden a star has led us on,
Raining bliss and benison—
Bliss tomorrow 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!
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!’
‘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 side-long 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 chilblainsal 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,’am 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 corsairan 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
watermenao
applying the Royal Humane Society’sap
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
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 homecoming 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 rippingaq
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 swath
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.