He Had Got Down To The Bones

All Along The Backwater, Through The Rushes Tall, Ducks Are A-dabbling, Up Tails All!

The Mole Was Bewitched, Entranced, Fascinated. By The Side Of The River He Trotted As One Trots, When Very Small, By The Side Of A Man Who Holds One Spellbound By Exciting Stories; And When Tired At Last, He Sat On The Bank, While The River Still Chattered On To Him, A Babbling Procession Of The Best Stories In The World, Sent From The Heart Of The Earth To Be Told At Last To The Insatiable Sea.

Home! That Was What They Meant, Those Caressing Appeals, Those Soft Touches Wafted Through The Air, Those Invisible Little Hands Pulling And Tugging, All One Way.

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.

But Mole Stood Still A Moment, Held In Thought. As One Wakened Suddenly From A Beautiful Dream, Who Struggles To Recall It, But Can Recapture Nothing But A Dim Sense Of The Beauty In It, The Beauty! Till That, Too, Fades Away In Its Turn, And The Dreamer Bitterly Accepts The Hard, Cold Waking And All Its Penalties.