Onion Sauce! Onion Sauce!

The River... It's My World, And I Don't Want Any Other. What It Hasn't Got Is Not Worth Having, And What It Doesn't Know Is Not Worth Knowing. Lord! The Times We've Had Together!

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 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.

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.

An Errant May-fly Swerved Unsteadily Athwart The Current In The Intoxicated Fashion Affected By Young Bloods Of May-flies Seeing Life. A Swirl Of Water And A 'cloop!' And The May-fly Was Visible No More