The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame (black male authors txt) 📕

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 sleepwalker, 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