The river bank (1)

Wind in the willow

I. THE RIVER BANK




The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, 
spring-cleaning his little home. 

First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and
steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash;
till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of
whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back
and weary arms. 

Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below
and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little 
house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing.

It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down
his brush on the floor, said 'Bother!' and 'O blow!' and
also 'Hang spring-cleaning!' and bolted out of the house
without even waiting to put on his coat.

Something up above was calling him imperiously, 
and he made for the steep little tunnel.

So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged
and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched
and scraped, working busily with his little paws.

He muttering to himself, 'Up we go! Up we go!' till at last,
pop !  his snout came out into the sunlight,
and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of
a great meadow.

'This is fine!' he said to himself. 
'This is better than whitewashing!'

The sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed
his heated brow.



He Jumped off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living
and the delight of spring without its cleaning.

He pursued his way across the meadow till he reached
the hedge on the further side.

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