prompt:
Chapter: The Willow-Wren was twittering his thin little song, hidden himself in
the dark selvedge of the river bank. Though it was past ten o'clock at
night, the sky still clung to and retained some lingering skirts of
light from the departed day; and the sullen heats of the torrid
afternoon broke up and rolled away at the dispersing touch of the cool
fingers of the short midsummer night. Mole lay stretched on the bank,
still panting from the stress of the fierce day that had been
cloudless from dawn to late sunset, and waited for his friend to
return. He had been on the river with some companions, leaving the
Water Rat free to keep an engagement of long standing with Otter; and
he had come back to find the house dark and deserted, and no sign of
Rat, who was doubtless keeping it up late with his old comrade. It
was still too hot to think of staying indoors, so he lay on some cool
dock-leaves, and thought over the past day and its doings, and how
very good they all had been.

The Rat's light footfall was presently heard approaching over the
parched grass. "O, the blessed coolness!" he said, and sat down,
gazing thoughtfully into the river, silent and pre-occupied.

"You stayed to supper, of course?" said the Mole presently.

"Simply had to," said the Rat. "They wouldn't hear of my going before.
You know how kind they always are. And they made things as jolly for
me as ever they could, right up to the moment I left. But I felt a
brute all the time, as it was clear to me they were very unhappy,
though they tried to hide it. Mole, I'm afraid they're in trouble.
Little Portly is missing again; and you know what a lot his father
thinks of him, though he never says much about it."

"What, that child?" said the Mole lightly. "Well, suppose he is; why
worry about it? He's always straying off and getting lost, and turning
up again; he's so adventurous. But no harm ever happens to him.
Everybody hereabouts knows him and likes him, just as they do old
Otter, and you may be sure some animal or other will come across him
and bring him back again all right. Why, we've found him ourselves,
miles from home, and quite self-possessed and cheerful!"

"Yes; but this time it's more serious," said the Rat gravely. "He's
been missing for some days now, and the Otters have hunted everywhere,
high and low, without finding the slightest trace. And they've asked
every animal, too, for miles around, and no one knows anything about
him. Otter's evidently more anxious than he'll admit. I got out of him
that young Portly hasn't learnt to swim very well yet, and I can see
he's thinking of the weir. There's a lot of water coming down still,
considering the time of the year, and the place always had a
fascination for the child. And then there are--well, traps and
things--_you_ know. Otter's not the fellow to be nervous about any
son of his before it's time. And now he _is_ nervous. When I left, he
came out with me--said he wanted some air, and talked about stretching
his legs. But I could see it wasn't that, so I drew him out and pumped
him, and got it all from him at last. He was going to spend the night
watching by the ford. You know the place where the old ford used to
be, in by-gone days before they built the bridge?"

"I know it well," said the Mole. "But why should Otter choose to watch
there?"

"Well, it seems that it was there he gave Portly his first
swimming-lesson," continued the Rat. "From that shallow, gravelly spit
near the bank. And it was there he used to teach him fishing, and
there young Portly caught his first fish, of which he was so very
proud. The child loved the spot, and Otter thinks that if he came
wandering back from wherever he is--if he _is_ anywhere by this time,
poor little chap--he might make for the ford he was so fond of; or if
he came across it he'd remember it well, and stop there and play,
perhaps. So Otter goes there every night and watches--on the chance,
you know, just on the chance!"

They were silent for a time, both thinking of the same thing--the
lonely, heart-sore animal, crouched by the ford, watching and waiting,
the long night through--on the chance.

"Well, well," said the Rat presently, "I suppose we ought to be
thinking about turning in." But he never offered to move.

"Rat," said the Mole, "I simply can't go and turn in, and go to sleep,
and _do_ nothing, even though there doesn't seem to be anything to be
done. We'll get the boat out, and paddle upstream. The moon will be up
in an hour or so, and then we will search as well as we can--anyhow,
it will be better than going to bed and doing _nothing_."

"Just what I was thinking myself," said the Rat. "It's not the sort of
night for bed anyhow; and daybreak is not so very far off, and then we
may pick up some news of him from early risers as we go along."

They got the boat out, and the Rat took the sculls, paddling with
caution. Out in mid-stream, there was a clear, narrow track that
faintly reflected the sky; but wherever shadows fell on the water from
bank, bush, or tree, they were as solid to all appearance as the banks
themselves, and the Mole had to steer with judgment accordingly. Dark
and deserted as it was, the night was full of small noises, song and
chatter and rustling, telling of the busy little population who were
up and about, plying their trades and vocations through the night till
sunshine should fall on them at last and send them off to their
well-earned repose. The water's own noises, too, were more apparent
than by day, its gurglings and "cloops" more unexpected and near at
hand; and constantly they started at what seemed a sudden clear call
from an actual articulate voice.

The line of the horizon was clear and hard against the sky, and in one
particular quarter it showed black against a silvery climbing
phosphorescence that grew and grew. At last, over the rim of the
waiting earth the moon lifted with slow majesty till it swung clear of
the horizon and rode off, free of moorings; and once more they began
to see surfaces--meadows wide-spread, and quiet gardens, and the river
itself from bank to bank, all softly disclosed, all washed clean of
mystery and terror, all radiant again as by day, but with a difference
that was tremendous. Their old haunts greeted them again in other
raiment, as if they had slipped away and put on this pure new apparel
and come quietly back, smiling as they shyly waited to see if they
would be recognised again under it.

Fastening their boat to a willow, the friends landed in this silent,
silver kingdom, and patiently explored the hedges, the hollow trees,
the runnels and their little culverts, the ditches and dry water-ways.
Embarking again and crossing over, they worked their way up the stream
in this manner, while the moon, serene and detached in a cloudless
sky, did what she could, though so far off, to help them in their
quest; till her hour came and she sank earthwards reluctantly, and
left them, and mystery once more held field and river.

Then a change began slowly to declare itself. The horizon became
clearer, field and tree came more into sight, and somehow with a
different look; the mystery began to drop away from them. A bird piped
suddenly, and was still; and a light breeze sprang up and set the
reeds and bulrushes rustling. Rat, who was in the stern of the boat,
while Mole sculled, sat up suddenly and listened with a passionate
intentness. Mole, who with gentle strokes was just keeping the boat
moving while he scanned the banks with care, looked at him with
curiosity.

"It's gone!" sighed the Rat, sinking back in his seat again. "So
beautiful and strange and new! Since it was to end so soon, I almost
wish I had never heard it. For it has roused a longing in me that is
pain, and nothing seems worth while but just to hear that sound once
more and go on listening to it for ever. No! There it is again!" he
cried, alert once more. Entranced, he was silent for a long space,
spellbound.

"Now it passes on and I begin to lose it," he said presently. "O Mole!
the beauty of it! The merry bubble and joy, the thin, clear, happy
call of the distant piping! Such music I never dreamed of, and the
call in it is stronger even than the music is sweet! Row on, Mole,
row! For the music and the call must be for us."

The Mole, greatly wondering, obeyed. "I hear nothing myself," he said,
"but the wind playing in the reeds and rushes and osiers."

The Rat never answered, if indeed he heard. Rapt, transported,
trembling, he was possessed in all his senses by this new divine thing
that caught up his helpless soul and swung and dandled it, a powerless
but happy infant in a strong sustaining grasp.

In silence Mole rowed steadily, and soon they came to a point where the
river divided, a long backwater branching off to one side. With a slight
movement of his head Rat, who had long dropped the rudder-lines,
directed the rower to take the backwater. The creeping tide of light
gained and gained, and now they could see the colour of the flowers that
gemmed the water's edge.

"Clearer and nearer still," cried the Rat joyously. "Now you must
surely hear it! Ah--at last--I see you do!"

Breathless and transfixed, the Mole stopped rowing as the liquid run
of that glad piping broke on him like a wave, caught him up, and
possessed him utterly. He saw the tears on his comrade's cheeks, and
bowed his head and understood. For a space they hung there, brushed by
the purple loosestrife that fringed the bank; then the clear imperious
summons that marched hand-in-hand with the intoxicating melody imposed
its will on Mole, and mechanically he bent to his oars again. And the
light grew steadily stronger, but no birds sang as they were wont to
do at the approach of dawn; and but for the heavenly music all was
marvellously still.

On either side of them, as they glided onwards, the rich meadow-grass
seemed that morning of a freshness and a greenness unsurpassable.
Never had they noticed the roses so vivid, the willow-herb so riotous,
the meadow-sweet so odorous and pervading. Then the murmur of the
approaching weir began to hold the air, and they felt a consciousness
that they were nearing the end, whatever it might be, that surely
awaited their expedition.

A wide half-circle of foam and glinting lights and shining shoulders
of green water, the great weir closed the backwater from bank to bank,
troubled all the quiet surface with twirling eddies and floating
foam-streaks, and deadened all other sounds with its solemn and
soothing rumble. In midmost of the stream, embraced in the weir's
shimmering arm-spread, a small island lay anchored, fringed close with
willow and silver birch and alder. Reserved, shy, but full of
significance, it hid whatever it might hold behind a veil, keeping it
till the hour should come, and, with the hour, those who were called
and chosen.

Slowly, but with no doubt or hesitation whatever, and in something of
a solemn expectancy, the two animals passed through the broken,
tumultuous water and moored their boat at the flowery margin of the
island. In silence they landed, and pushed through the blossom and
scented herbage and undergrowth that led up to the level ground, till
they stood on a little lawn of a marvellous green, set round with
Nature's own orchard-trees--crab-apple, wild cherry, and sloe.

"This is the place of my song-dream, the place the music played to
me," whispered the Rat, as if in a trance. "Here, in this holy place,
here if anywhere, surely we shall find Him!"

Then suddenly the Mole felt a great Awe fall upon him, an awe that
turned his muscles to water, bowed his head, and rooted his feet to
the ground. It was no panic terror--indeed he felt wonderfully at
peace and happy--but it was an awe that smote and held him and,
without seeing, he knew it could only mean that some august Presence
was very, very near. With difficulty he turned to look for his friend,
and saw him at his side, cowed, stricken, and trembling violently. And
still there was utter silence in the populous bird-haunted branches
around them; and still the light grew and grew.

Perhaps he would never have dared to raise his eyes, but that, though
the piping was now hushed, the call and the summons seemed still
dominant and imperious. He might not refuse, were Death himself
waiting to strike him instantly, once he had looked with mortal eye on
things rightly kept hidden. Trembling he obeyed, and raised his humble
head; and then, in that utter clearness of the imminent dawn, while
Nature, flushed with fulness of incredible colour, seemed to hold her
breath for the event, he looked in the very eyes of the Friend and
Helper; saw the backward sweep of the curved horns, gleaming in the
growing daylight; saw the stern, hooked nose between the kindly eyes
that were looking down on them humorously, while the bearded mouth
broke into a half-smile at the corners; saw the rippling muscles on
the arm that lay across the broad chest, the long supple hand still
holding the pan-pipes only just fallen away from the parted lips; saw
the splendid curves of the shaggy limbs disposed in majestic ease on
the sward; saw, last of all, nestling between his very hooves,
sleeping soundly in entire peace and contentment, the little, round,
podgy, childish form of the baby otter. All this he saw, for one
moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still,
as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered.

"Rat!" he found breath to whisper, shaking. "Are you afraid?"

"Afraid?" murmured the Rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love.
"Afraid! Of _Him_? O, never, never! And yet--and yet--O, Mole, I am
afraid!"

Then the two animals, crouching to the earth, bowed their heads and
did worship.

Sudden and magnificent, the sun's broad golden disc showed itself over
the horizon facing them; and the first rays, shooting across the level
water-meadows, took the animals full in the eyes and dazzled them.
When they were able to look once more, the Vision had vanished, and
the air was full of the carol of birds that hailed the dawn.

As they stared blankly, in dumb misery deepening as they slowly realised
all they had seen and all they had lost, a capricious little breeze,
dancing up from the surface of the water, tossed the aspens, shook the
dewy roses, and blew lightly and caressingly in their faces; and with
its soft touch came instant oblivion. For this is the last best gift
that the kindly demi-god is careful to bestow on those to whom he has
revealed himself in their helping: the gift of forgetfulness. Lest the
awful remembrance should remain and grow, and overshadow mirth and
pleasure, and the great haunting memory should spoil all the after-lives
of little animals helped out of difficulties, in order that they should
be happy and light-hearted as before.

Mole rubbed his eyes and stared at Rat, who was looking about him in a
puzzled sort of way. "I beg your pardon; what did you say, Rat?" he
asked.

"I think I was only remarking," said Rat slowly, "that this was the
right sort of place, and that here, if anywhere, we should find him.
And look! Why, there he is, the little fellow!" And with a cry of
delight he ran towards the slumbering Portly.

But Mole stood still a moment, held in thought. As one wakened
suddenly from a beautiful dream, who struggles to recall it, and can
recapture nothing but a dim sense of the beauty of it, the beauty!
Till that, too, fades away in its turn, and the dreamer bitterly
accepts the hard, cold waking and all its penalties; so Mole, after
struggling with his memory for a brief space, shook his head sadly and
followed the Rat.

Portly woke up with a joyous squeak, and wriggled with pleasure at the
sight of his father's friends, who had played with him so often in past
days. In a moment, however, his face grew blank, and he fell to hunting
round in a circle with pleading whine. As a child that has fallen
happily asleep in its nurse's arms, and wakes to find itself alone and
laid in a strange place, and searches corners and cupboards, and runs
from room to room, despair growing silently in its heart, even so Portly
searched the island and searched, dogged and unwearying, till at last
the black moment came for giving it up, and sitting down and crying
bitterly.

The Mole ran quickly to comfort the little animal; but Rat, lingering,
looked long and doubtfully at certain hoof-marks deep in the sward.

"Some--great--animal--has been here," he murmured slowly and
thoughtfully; and stood musing, musing; his mind strangely stirred.

"Come along, Rat!" called the Mole. "Think of poor Otter, waiting up
there by the ford!"

Portly had soon been comforted by the promise of a treat--a jaunt on
the river in Mr. Rat's real boat; and the two animals conducted him to
the water's side, placed him securely between them in the bottom of
the boat, and paddled off down the backwater. The sun was fully up by
now, and hot on them, birds sang lustily and without restraint, and
flowers smiled and nodded from either bank, but somehow--so thought
the animals--with less of richness and blaze of colour than they
seemed to remember seeing quite recently somewhere--they wondered
where.

The main river reached again, they turned the boat's head upstream,
towards the point where they knew their friend was keeping his lonely
vigil. As they drew near the familiar ford, the Mole took the boat in
to the bank, and they lifted Portly out and set him on his legs on
the tow-path, gave him his marching orders and a friendly farewell pat
on the back, and shoved out into mid-stream. They watched the little
animal as he waddled along the path contentedly and with importance;
watched him till they saw his muzzle suddenly lift and his waddle
break into a clumsy amble as he quickened his pace with shrill whines
and wriggles of recognition. Looking up the river, they could see
Otter start up, tense and rigid, from out of the shallows where he
crouched in dumb patience, and could hear his amazed and joyous bark
as he bounded up through the osiers on to the path. Then the Mole,
with a strong pull on one oar, swung the boat round and let the full
stream bear them down again whither it would, their quest now happily
ended.

"I feel strangely tired, Rat," said the Mole, leaning wearily over his
oars, as the boat drifted. "It's being up all night, you'll say,
perhaps; but that's nothing. We do as much half the nights of the
week, at this time of the year. No; I feel as if I had been through
something very exciting and rather terrible, and it was just over;
and yet nothing particular has happened."

"Or something very surprising and splendid and beautiful," murmured
the Rat, leaning back and closing his eyes. "I feel just as you do,
Mole; simply dead tired, though not body-tired. It's lucky we've got
the stream with us, to take us home. Isn't it jolly to feel the sun
again, soaking into one's bones! And hark to the wind playing in the
reeds!"

"It's like music--far-away music," said the Mole, nodding drowsily.

"So I was thinking," murmured the Rat, dreamful and languid.
"Dance-music--the lilting sort that runs on without a stop--but with
words in it, too--it passes into words and out of them again--I catch
them at intervals--then it is dance-music once more, and then nothing
but the reeds' soft thin whispering."

"You hear better than I," said the Mole sadly. "I cannot catch the
words."

"Let me try and give you them," said the Rat softly, his eyes still
closed. "Now it is turning into words again--faint but clear--_Lest
the awe should dwell--And turn your frolic to fret--You shall look on
my power at the helping hour--But then you shall forget!_ Now the
reeds take it up--_forget, forget_, they sigh, and it dies away in a
rustle and a whisper. Then the voice returns--

"_Lest limbs be reddened and rent--I spring the trap that is set--As I
loose the snare you may glimpse me there--For surely you shall
forget!_ Row nearer, Mole, nearer to the reeds! It is hard to catch,
and grows each minute fainter.

"_Helper and healer, I cheer--Small waifs in the woodland wet--Strays
I find in it, wounds I bind in it--Bidding them all forget!_ Nearer,
Mole, nearer! No, it is no good; the song has died away into
reed-talk."

"But what do the words mean?" asked the wondering Mole.

"That I do not know," said the Rat simply. "I passed them on to you as
they reached me. Ah! now they return again, and this time full and
clear! This time, at last, it is the real, the unmistakable thing,
simple--passionate--perfect--"

"Well, let's have it, then," said the Mole, after he had waited
patiently for a few minutes, half-dozing in the hot sun.

But no answer came. He looked, and understood the silence. With a
smile of much happiness on his face, and something of a listening look
still lingering there, the weary Rat was fast asleep.

When Toad found himself immured in a dank and noisome dungeon, and
knew that all the grim darkness of a medieval fortress lay between him
and the outer world of sunshine and well-metalled high roads where he
had lately been so happy, disporting himself as if he had bought up
every road in England, he flung himself at full length on the floor,
and shed bitter tears, and abandoned himself to dark despair. "This is
the end of everything" (he said), "at least it is the end of the
career of Toad, which is the same thing; the popular and handsome
Toad, the rich and hospitable Toad, the Toad so free and careless and
debonair! How can I hope to be ever set at large again" (he said),
"who have been imprisoned so justly for stealing so handsome a
motor-car in such an audacious manner, and for such lurid and
imaginative cheek, bestowed upon such a number of fat, red-faced
policemen!" (Here his sobs choked him.) "Stupid animal that I was" (he
said), "now I must languish in this dungeon, till people who were
proud to say they knew me, have forgotten the very name of Toad! O
wise old Badger!" (he said), "O clever, intelligent Rat and sensible
Mole! What sound judgments, what a knowledge of men and matters you
possess! O unhappy and forsaken Toad!" With lamentations such as these
he passed his days and nights for several weeks, refusing his meals or
intermediate light refreshments, though the grim and ancient gaoler,
knowing that Toad's pockets were well lined, frequently pointed out
that many comforts, and indeed luxuries, could by arrangement be sent
in--at a price--from outside.

Now the gaoler had a daughter, a pleasant wench and good-hearted, who
assisted her father in the lighter duties of his post. She was
particularly fond of animals, and, besides her canary, whose cage hung
on a nail in the massive wall of the keep by day, to the great
annoyance of prisoners who relished an after-dinner nap, and was
shrouded in an antimacassar on the parlour table at night, she kept
several piebald mice and a restless revolving squirrel. This
kind-hearted girl, pitying the misery of Toad, said to her father one
day, "Father! I can't bear to see that poor beast so unhappy, and
getting so thin! You let me have the managing of him. You know how
fond of animals I am. I'll make him eat from my hand, and sit up, and
do all sorts of things."

Her father replied that she could do what she liked with him. He was
tired of Toad, and his sulks and his airs and his meanness. So that
day she went on her errand of mercy, and knocked at the door of Toad's
cell.

"Now, cheer up, Toad," she said, coaxingly, on entering, "and sit up
and dry your eyes and be a sensible animal. And do try and eat a bit
of dinner. See, I've brought you some of mine, hot from the oven!"

It was bubble-and-squeak, between two plates, and its fragrance filled
the narrow cell. The penetrating smell of cabbage reached the nose of
Toad as he lay prostrate in his misery on the floor, and gave him the
idea for a moment that perhaps life was not such a blank and desperate
thing as he had imagined. But still he wailed, and kicked with his legs,
and refused to be comforted. So the wise girl retired for the time, but,
of course, a good deal of the smell of hot cabbage remained behind, as it
will do, and Toad, between his sobs, sniffed and reflected, and gradually
began to think new and inspiring thoughts: of chivalry, and poetry, and
deeds still to be done; of broad meadows, and cattle browsing in them,
raked by sun and wind; of kitchen-gardens, and straight herb-borders, and
warm snap-dragon beset by bees; and of the comforting clink of dishes set
down on the table at Toad Hall, and the scrape of chair-legs on the floor
as every one pulled himself close up to his work. The air of the narrow
cell took a rosy tinge; he began to think of his friends, and how they
would surely be able to do something; of lawyers, and how they would have
enjoyed his case, and what an ass he had been not to get in a few; and
lastly, he thought of his own great cleverness and resource, and all
that he was capable of if he only gave his great mind to it; and the
cure was almost complete.

[Illustration: _He lay prostrate in his misery on the floor_]

When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a
cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot
buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter
running through the holes in it in great golden drops, like honey from
the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad,
and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on
bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings,
when one's ramble was over, and slippered feet were propped on the
fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy
canaries. Toad sat up on end once more, dried his eyes, sipped his tea
and munched his toast, and soon began talking freely about himself,
and the house he lived in, and his doings there, and how important he
was, and what a lot his friends thought of him.

The gaoler's daughter saw that the topic was doing him as much good
as the tea, as indeed it was, and encouraged him to go on.

"Tell me about Toad Hall," said she. "It sounds beautiful."

"Toad Hall," said the Toad proudly, "is an eligible, self-contained
gentleman's residence, very unique; dating in part from the fourteenth
century, but replete with every modern convenience. Up-to-date
sanitation. Five minutes from church, post-office, and golf-links.
Suitable for--"

"Bless the animal," said the girl, laughing, "I don't want to _take_
it. Tell me something _real_ about it. But first wait till I fetch you
some more tea and toast."

She tripped away, and presently returned with a fresh trayful; and Toad,
pitching into the toast with avidity, his spirits quite restored to
their usual level, told her about the boat-house, and the fish-pond, and
the old walled kitchen-garden; and about the pig-styes and the stables,
and the pigeon-house and the hen-house; and about the dairy, and the
wash-house, and the china-cupboards, and the linen-presses (she liked
that bit especially); and about the banqueting-hall, and the fun they
had there when the other animals were gathered round the table and Toad
was at his best, singing songs, telling stories, carrying on generally.
Then she wanted to know about his animal-friends, and was very
interested in all he had to tell her about them and how they lived, and
what they did to pass their time. Of course, she did not say she was
fond of animals as _pets_, because she had the sense to see that Toad
would be extremely offended. When she said good-night, having filled his
water-jug and shaken up his straw for him, Toad was very much the same
sanguine, self-satisfied animal that he had been of old. He sang a
little song or two, of the sort he used to sing at his dinner-parties,
curled himself up in the straw, and had an excellent night's rest and
the pleasantest of dreams.

They had many interesting talks together, after that, as the dreary
days went on; and the gaoler's daughter grew very sorry for Toad, and
thought it a great shame that a poor little animal should be locked
up in prison for what seemed to her a very trivial offence. Toad, of
course, in his vanity, thought that her interest in him proceeded from
a growing tenderness; and he could not help half-regretting that the
social gulf between them was so very wide, for she was a comely lass,
and evidently admired him very much.

One morning the girl was very thoughtful, and answered at random, and
did not seem to Toad to be paying proper attention to his witty
sayings and sparkling comments.

"Toad," she said presently, "just listen, please. I have an aunt who
is a washerwoman."

"There, there," said Toad, graciously and affably, "never mind; think
no more about it. _I_ have several aunts who _ought_ to be
washerwomen."

"Do be quiet a minute, Toad," said the girl. "You talk too much,
that's your chief fault, and I'm trying to think, and you hurt my
head. As I said, I have an aunt who is a washerwoman; she does the
washing for all the prisoners in this castle--we try to keep any
paying business of that sort in the family, you understand. She takes
out the washing on Monday morning, and brings it in on Friday evening.
This is a Thursday. Now, this is what occurs to me: you're very
rich--at least you're always telling me so--and she's very poor. A few
pounds wouldn't make any difference to you, and it would mean a lot to
her. Now, I think if she were properly approached--squared, I believe
is the word you animals use--you could come to some arrangement by
which she would let you have her dress and bonnet and so on, and you
could escape from the castle as the official washerwoman. You're very
alike in many respects--particularly about the figure."

"We're _not_," said the Toad in a huff. "I have a very elegant
figure--for what I am."

"So has my aunt," replied the girl, "for what _she_ is. But have it
your own way. You horrid, proud, ungrateful animal, when I'm sorry for
you, and trying to help you!"

"Yes, yes, that's all right; thank you very much indeed," said the
Toad hurriedly. "But look here! you wouldn't surely have Mr. Toad, of
Toad Hall, going about the country disguised as a washerwoman!"

"Then you can stop here as a Toad," replied the girl with much spirit.
"I suppose you want to go off in a coach-and-four!"

Honest Toad was always ready to admit himself in the wrong. "You are a
good, kind, clever girl," he said, "and I am indeed a proud and a
stupid toad. Introduce me to your worthy aunt, if you will be so kind,
and I have no doubt that the excellent lady and I will be able to
arrange terms satisfactory to both parties."

Next evening the girl ushered her aunt into Toad's cell, bearing his
week's washing pinned up in a towel. The old lady had been prepared
beforehand for the interview, and the sight of certain gold sovereigns
that Toad had thoughtfully placed on the table in full view practically
completed the matter and left little further to discuss. In return for
his cash, Toad received a cotton print gown, an apron, a shawl, and a
rusty black bonnet; the only stipulation the old lady made being that
she should be gagged and bound and dumped down in a corner. By this not
very convincing artifice, she explained, aided by picturesque fiction
which she could supply herself, she hoped to retain her situation, in
spite of the suspicious appearance of things.

Toad was delighted with the suggestion. It would enable him to leave the
prison in some style, and with his reputation for being a desperate and
dangerous fellow untarnished; and he readily helped the gaoler's
daughter to make her aunt appear as much as possible the victim of
circumstances over which she had no control.

"Now it's your turn, Toad," said the girl. "Take off that coat and
waistcoat of yours; you're fat enough as it is."

Shaking with laughter, she proceeded to "hook-and-eye" him into the
cotton print gown, arranged the shawl with a professional fold, and
tied the strings of the rusty bonnet under his chin.

"You're the very image of her," she giggled, "only I'm sure you never
looked half so respectable in all your life before. Now, good-bye,
Toad, and good luck. Go straight down the way you came up; and if any
one says anything to you, as they probably will, being but men, you
can chaff back a bit, of course, but remember you're a widow woman,
quite alone in the world, with a character to lose."

With a quaking heart, but as firm a footstep as he could command, Toad
set forth cautiously on what seemed to be a most hare-brained and
hazardous undertaking; but he was soon agreeably surprised to find how
easy everything was made for him, and a little humbled at the thought
that both his popularity, and the sex that seemed to inspire it, were
really another's. The washerwoman's squat figure in its familiar
cotton print seemed a passport for every barred door and grim gateway;
even when he hesitated, uncertain as to the right turning to take, he
found himself helped out of his difficulty by the warder at the next
gate, anxious to be off to his tea, summoning him to come along sharp
and not keep him waiting there all night. The chaff and the humourous
sallies to which he was subjected, and to which, of course, he had to
provide prompt and effective reply, formed, indeed, his chief danger;
for Toad was an animal with a strong sense of his own dignity, and the
chaff was mostly (he thought) poor and clumsy, and the humour of the
sallies entirely lacking. However, he kept his temper, though with
great difficulty, suited his retorts to his company and his supposed
character, and did his best not to overstep the limits of good taste.

It seemed hours before he crossed the last courtyard, rejected the
pressing invitations from the last guardroom, and dodged the outspread
arms of the last warder, pleading with simulated passion for just one
farewell embrace. But at last he heard the wicket-gate in the great
outer door click behind him, felt the fresh air of the outer world
upon his anxious brow, and knew that he was free!

Dizzy with the easy success of his daring exploit, he walked quickly
towards the lights of the town, not knowing in the least what he
should do next, only quite certain of one thing, that he must remove
himself as quickly as possible from the neighbourhood where the lady
he was forced to represent was so well-known and so popular a
character.

As he walked along, considering, his attention was caught by some red
and green lights a little way off, to one side of the town, and the
sound of the puffing and snorting of engines and the banging of
shunted trucks fell on his ear. "Aha!" he thought, "this is a piece of
luck! A railway station is the thing I want most in the whole world at
this moment; and what's more, I needn't go through the town to get it,
and shan't have to support this humiliating character by repartees
which, though thoroughly effective, do not assist one's sense of
self-respect."

He made his way to the station accordingly, consulted a time-table,
and found that a train, bound more or less in the direction of his
home, was due to start in half-an-hour. "More luck!" said Toad, his
spirits rising rapidly, and went off to the booking-office to buy his
ticket.

He gave the name of the station that he knew to be nearest to the
village of which Toad Hall was the principal feature, and mechanically
put his fingers, in search of the necessary money, where his waistcoat
pocket should have been. But here the cotton gown, which had nobly stood
by him so far, and which he had basely forgotten, intervened, and
frustrated his efforts. In a sort of nightmare he struggled with the
strange uncanny thing that seemed to hold his hands, turn all muscular
strivings to water, and laugh at him all the time; while other
travellers, forming up in a line behind, waited with impatience, making
suggestions of more or less value and comments of more or less
stringency and point. At last--somehow--he never rightly understood
how--he burst the barriers, attained the goal, arrived at where all
waistcoat pockets are eternally situated, and found--not only no money,
but no pocket to hold it, and no waistcoat to hold the pocket!

To his horror he recollected that he had left both coat and waistcoat
behind him in his cell, and with them his pocket-book, money, keys,
watch, matches, pencil-case--all that makes life worth living, all
that distinguishes the many-pocketed animal, the lord of creation,
from the inferior one-pocketed or no-pocketed productions that hop or
trip about permissively, unequipped for the real contest.

In his misery he made one desperate effort to carry the thing off,
and, with a return to his fine old manner--a blend of the Squire and
the College Don--he said, "Look here! I find I've left my purse
behind. Just give me that ticket, will you, and I'll send the money on
to-morrow? I'm well-known in these parts."

The clerk stared at him and the rusty black bonnet a moment, and then
laughed. "I should think you were pretty well known in these parts,"
he said, "if you've tried this game on often. Here, stand away from
the window, please, madam; you're obstructing the other passengers!"

An old gentleman who had been prodding him in the back for some
moments here thrust him away, and, what was worse, addressed him as
his good woman, which angered Toad more than anything that had
occurred that evening.

Baffled and full of despair, he wandered blindly down the platform
where the train was standing, and tears trickled down each side of
his nose. It was hard, he thought, to be within sight of safety and
almost of home, and to be baulked by the want of a few wretched
shillings and by the pettifogging mistrustfulness of paid officials.
Very soon his escape would be discovered, the hunt would be up, he
would be caught, reviled, loaded with chains, dragged back again to
prison and bread-and-water and straw; his guards and penalties would
be doubled; and O, what sarcastic remarks the girl would make! What
was to be done? He was not swift of foot; his figure was unfortunately
recognisable. Could he not squeeze under the seat of a carriage? He
had seen this method adopted by schoolboys, when the journey-money
provided by thoughtful parents had been diverted to other and better
ends. As he pondered, he found himself opposite the engine, which was
being oiled, wiped, and generally caressed by its affectionate driver,
a burly man with an oil-can in one hand and a lump of cotton-waste in
the other.

"Hullo, mother!" said the engine-driver, "what's the trouble? You
don't look particularly cheerful."

"O, sir!" said Toad, crying afresh, "I am a poor unhappy washerwoman,
and I've lost all my money, and can't pay for a ticket, and I _must_
get home to-night somehow, and whatever I am to do I don't know. O
dear, O dear!"

"That's a bad business, indeed," said the engine-driver reflectively.
"Lost your money--and can't get home--and got some kids, too, waiting
for you, I dare say?"

"Any amount of 'em," sobbed Toad. "And they'll be hungry--and playing
with matches--and upsetting lamps, the little innocents!--and
quarrelling, and going on generally. O dear, O dear!"

"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do," said the good engine-driver.
"You're a washerwoman to your trade, says you. Very well, that's that.
And I'm an engine-driver, as you well may see, and there's no denying
it's terribly dirty work. Uses up a power of shirts, it does, till my
missus is fair tired of washing of 'em. If you'll wash a few shirts
for me when you get home, and send 'em along, I'll give you a ride on
my engine. It's against the Company's regulations, but we're not so
very particular in these out-of-the-way parts."

The Toad's misery turned into rapture as he eagerly scrambled up into
the cab of the engine. Of course, he had never washed a shirt in his
life, and couldn't if he tried and, anyhow, he wasn't going to begin;
but he thought: "When I get safely home to Toad Hall, and have money
again, and pockets to put it in, I will send the engine-driver enough
to pay for quite a quantity of washing, and that will be the same
thing, or better."

The guard waved his welcome flag, the engine-driver whistled in
cheerful response, and the train moved out of the station. As the
speed increased, and the Toad could see on either side of him real
fields, and trees, and hedges, and cows, and horses, all flying past
him, and as he thought how every minute was bringing him nearer to
Toad Hall, and sympathetic friends, and money to chink in his pocket,
and a soft bed to sleep in, and good things to eat, and praise and
admiration at the recital of his adventures and his surpassing
cleverness, he began to skip up and down and shout and sing snatches
of song, to the great astonishment of the engine-driver, who had come
across washerwomen before, at long intervals, but never one at all
like this.

They had covered many and many a mile, and Toad was already considering
what he would have for supper as soon as he got home, when he noticed
that the engine-driver, with a puzzled expression on his face, was
leaning over the side of the engine and listening hard. Then he saw him
climb on to the coals and gaze out over the top of the train; then he
returned and said to Toad: "It's very strange; we're the last train
running in this direction to-night, yet I could be sworn that I heard
another following us!"

Toad ceased his frivolous antics at once. He became grave and depressed,
and a dull pain in the lower part of his spine, communicating itself to
his legs, made him want to sit down and try desperately not to think of
all the possibilities.

By this time the moon was shining brightly, and the engine-driver,
steadying himself on the coal, could command a view of the line behind
them for a long distance.

Presently he called out, "I can see it clearly now! It is an engine,
on our rails, coming along at a great pace! It looks as if we were
being pursued!"

The miserable Toad, crouching in the coal-dust, tried hard to think of
something to do, with dismal want of success.

"They are gaining on us fast!" cried the engine-driver. "And the
engine is crowded with the queerest lot of people! Men like ancient
warders, waving halberds; policemen in their helmets, waving
truncheons; and shabbily dressed men in pot-hats, obvious and
unmistakable plain-clothes detectives even at this distance, waving
revolvers and walking-sticks; all waving, and all shouting the same
thing--'Stop, stop, stop!'"

Then Toad fell on his knees among the coals, and, raising his clasped
paws in supplication, cried, "Save me, only save me, dear kind Mr.
Engine-driver, and I will confess everything! I am not the simple
washerwoman I seem to be! I have no children waiting for me, innocent
or otherwise! I am a toad--the well-known and popular Mr. Toad, a
landed proprietor; I have just escaped, by my great daring and
cleverness, from a loathsome dungeon into which my enemies had flung
me; and if those fellows on that engine recapture me, it will be
chains and bread-and-water and straw and misery once more for poor,
unhappy, innocent Toad!"

The engine-driver looked down upon him very sternly, and said, "Now
tell the truth; what were you put in prison for?"

"It was nothing very much," said poor Toad, colouring deeply. "I only
borrowed a motor-car while the owners were at lunch; they had no need of
it at the time. I didn't mean to steal it, really; but people--especially
magistrates--take such harsh views of thoughtless and high-spirited
actions."

The engine-driver looked very grave and said, "I fear that you have
been indeed a wicked toad, and by rights I ought to give you up to
offended justice. But you are evidently in sore trouble and distress,
so I will not desert you. I don't hold with motor-cars, for one thing;
and I don't hold with being ordered about by policemen when I'm on my
own engine, for another. And the sight of an animal in tears always
makes me feel queer and soft-hearted. So cheer up, Toad! I'll do my
best, and we may beat them yet!"

They piled on more coals, shovelling furiously; the furnace roared,
the sparks flew, the engine leapt and swung, but still their pursuers
slowly gained. The engine-driver, with a sigh, wiped his brow with a
handful of cotton-waste, and said, "I'm afraid it's no good, Toad. You
see, they are running light, and they have the better engine. There's
just one thing left for us to do, and it's your only chance, so attend
very carefully to what I tell you. A short way ahead of us is a long
tunnel, and on the other side of that the line passes through a thick
wood. Now, I will put on all the speed I can while we are running
through the tunnel, but the other fellows will slow down a bit,
naturally, for fear of an accident. When we are through, I will shut
off steam and put on brakes as hard as I can, and the moment it's safe
to do so you must jump and hide in the wood, before they get through
the tunnel and see you. Then I will go full speed ahead again, and
they can chase me if they like, for as long as they like, and as far
as they like. Now mind and be ready to jump when I tell you!"

They piled on more coals, and the train shot into the tunnel, and the
engine rushed and roared and rattled, till at last they shot out at
the other end into fresh air and the peaceful moonlight, and saw the
wood lying dark and helpful upon either side of the line. The driver
shut off steam and put on brakes, the Toad got down on the step, and
as the train slowed down to almost a walking pace he heard the driver
call out, "Now, jump!"

Toad jumped, rolled down a short embankment, picked himself up unhurt,
scrambled into the wood and hid.

Peeping out, he saw his train get up speed again and disappear at a
great pace. Then out of the tunnel burst the pursuing engine, roaring
and whistling, her motley crew waving their various weapons and
shouting, "Stop! stop! stop!" When they were past, the Toad had a
hearty laugh--for the first time since he was thrown into prison.

But he soon stopped laughing when he came to consider that it was now
very late and dark and cold, and he was in an unknown wood, with no
money and no chance of supper, and still far from friends and home;
and the dead silence of everything, after the roar and rattle of the
train, was something of a shock. He dared not leave the shelter of the
trees, so he struck into the wood, with the idea of leaving the
railway as far as possible behind him.

After so many weeks within walls, he found the wood strange and
unfriendly and inclined, he thought, to make fun of him. Night-jars,
sounding their mechanical rattle, made him think that the wood was
full of searching warders, closing in on him. An owl, swooping
noiselessly towards him, brushed his shoulder with its wing, making
him jump with the horrid certainty that it was a hand; then flitted
off, moth-like, laughing its low ho! ho! ho! which Toad thought in
very poor taste. Once he met a fox, who stopped, looked him up and
down in a sarcastic sort of way, and said, "Hullo, washerwoman! Half a
pair of socks and a pillow-case short this week! Mind it doesn't occur
again!" and swaggered off, sniggering. Toad looked about for a stone
to throw at him, but could not succeed in finding one, which vexed him
more than anything. At last, cold, hungry, and tired out, he sought
the shelter of a hollow tree, where with branches and dead leaves he
made himself as comfortable a bed as he could, and slept soundly till
the morning.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: "The Piper at the Gates of Dawn" Rat returns home late from a visit with Otter, and Mole asks how the day went. Rat explains that Otter was clearly preoccupied, since his son Portly had been missing for several days. Mole mentions that Portly is an adventurous child who often goes off on his own, but Rat counters that he has been missing for an unusually long period. Dozens of animals have been searching for the boy for days, to no avail. Otter himself has been waiting each night at an old ford near a bridge, an area where father and son have shared many memories. Mole and Rat try to pass a pleasant evening, but are too concerned about Portly's safety. After a while, they set out in Rat's boat to search, even though it is late at night. They paddle upstream for a while, exiting occasionally to search on land, but have no luck. At one point, Mole notices Rat leaning out the edge of the boat, transfixed with something Mole cannot see. Rat then begins to cry, saying that he heard a beautiful melody that made him extremely happy. A moment later, Mole hears the song, a tune coming from pan pipes. Entranced, they follow the music to a small island in a narrow stream. On the island, they see a faun, holding pan pipes and standing over a sleeping otter. They instinctively fall to the ground and worship him, but forget the experience as soon as they stand back up. Pan has also disappeared. Once they wake from that trance, they realize that Portly is the otter lying there. They row him home, dropping him near the bridge where Otter waits nightly, so that the family can reunite without their interference. They spend time trying to recollect what happened to them. Rat, being a songwriter and poet, tries to recall the words to the song they heard, and the lyrics tells a story about a helpful creature who watches over small animals, but then makes travelers forget they had ever seen him. Chapter 8 - "Toad's Adventures" Meanwhile, Toad remains imprisoned for car theft. Luckily, the gaoler's daughter has a fondness for animals, so takes an interest in him. When Toad quits eating from depression, she helps him transcend his misery and they become friends. Eventually, she promises to help him escape. Her plan involves her aunt, the jail's washerwoman. In exchange for compensation from Toad, the aunt agrees to give Toad her clothes so that the animal can walk out of jail disguised as a washerwoman. Toad accepts the plan, and easily escapes thanks to his ridiculous outfit. However, when Toad tries to buy a train ticket out of the city, he realizes he does not have his wallet. Still dressed as a washerwoman, he promises to clean the engine driver's shirts in exchange for passage. He does not know how to wash, but fakes it well enough that his escape is almost assured. Unfortunately, another train soon approaches quickly from behind, and the engine driver muses that they must be in pursuit of someone. In a panic, Toad admits the truth. The engine driver helps him escape, advising him to jump from the train after they exit a tunnel. Toad follows the plan, and is too exhausted to walk much before taking a well-deserved nap. Chapter 7 is one of the most misunderstood chapters in The Wind in the Willows, and is often excluded from newer editions of the novel. And yet while it is a stylistic deviation from the broader, more care-free jaunts of other chapters, it does align with the novel's overall themes.