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
strangelystirred.
`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
up
stream, 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.'