It's Not The Sort Of Night For

I'm Such A Clever Toad.

We Shall Creep Out Quietly Into The Butler's Pantry--" Cried The Mole. "--with Out Pistols And Swords And Sticks--" Shouted Ther Rat. "--and Rush In Upon Them," Said Badger. "--and Whack 'em, And Whack 'em, And Whack 'em!" Cried The Toad In Ecstasy, Running Round And Round The Room, And Jupming Over The Chairs.

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.

There Is Nothing -- Absolutely Nothing -- Half So Much Worth Doing As Simply Messing About In Boats. In Or Out Of 'em, It Doesn't Matter. Nothing Seems Really To Matter, That's The Charm Of It. Whether You Get Away, Or Whether You Don't; Whether You Arrive At Your Destination Or Whether You Reach Somewhere Else, Or Whether You Never Get Anywhere At All, You're Always Busy, And You Never Do Anything In Particular; And When You've Done It There's Always Something Else To Do, And You Can Do It If You Like, But You'd Much Better Not.

No Animal, According To The Rules Of Animal-etiquette, Is Ever Expected To Do Anything Strenuous, Or Heroic, Or Even Moderately Active During The Off-season Of Winter.