Independence Is All Very Well, But We

It Seemed A Place Where Heroes Could Fitly Feast After Victory, Where Weary Harvesters Could Line Up In Scores Along The Table And Keep Their Harvest Home With Mirth And Song, Or Where Two Or Three Friends Of Simple Tastes Could Sit About As They Pleased And Eat And Smoke And Talk In Comfort And Contentment.

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.

Toad, With No One To Check His Statements Or To Criticize In An Unfriendly Spirit, Rather Let Himself Go. Indeed, Much That He Related Belonged More Properly To The Category Of What-might-have-happened-had-i-only-thought-of-it-in-time-instead-of-ten-minutes-afterwards. Those Are Always The Best And Raciest Adventures; And Why Should They Not Be Truly Ours, As Much As The Somewhat Inadequate Things That Really Come Off?

There Was The Noise Of A Bolt Shot Back, And The Door Opened A Few Inches, Enough To Show A Long Snout And A Pair Of Sleepy Blinking Eyes.

The Mole Had Long Wanted To Make The I Acquaintance Of The Badger. He Seemed, By All Accounts, To Be Such An Important Personage And, Though Rarely Visible, To Make His Unseen Influence Felt By Everybody About The Place.