Take The Adventure, Heed The Call, Now

The Smell Of That Buttered Toast Simply Spoke To Toad, And With No Uncertain Voice; Talked Of Warm Kitchens, Of Breakfasts On Bright Frosty Mornings, Of Cozy Parlour Firesides On Winter Evenings, When One's Ramble Was Over And Slippered Feet Were Propped On The Fender; Of The Purring Of Contented Cats, And The Twitter Of Sleepy Canaries.

The Clever Men Of Oxford, Know All That There Is To Be Knowed But They None Of Them Know One Half As Much As Intelligent Mr. Toad.

There He Got Out The Luncheon-basket And Packed A Simple Meal, In Which, Remembering The Stranger's Origin And Preferences, He Took Care To Include A Yard Of Long French Bread, A Sausage Out Of Which The Garlic Sang, Some Cheese Which Lay Down And Cried, And A Long-necked Straw-covered Flask Wherein Lay Bottled Sunshine Shed And Garnered On Far Southern Slopes.

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.

Well, Well, Perhaps I Am A Bit Of A Talker. A Popular Fellow Such As I Am -- My Friends Get Round Me -- We Chaff, We Sparkle, We Tell Witty Stories -- And Somehow My Tongue Gets Wagging. I Have The Gift Of Conversation. I've Been Told I Ought To Have A Salon, Whatever That May Be.