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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.'






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