The Wild Wood Is Pretty Well Populated

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.

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.

O What A Flowery Track Lies Spread Before Me, Henceforth! What Dust Clouds Shall Spring Up Behind Me As I Speed On My Reckless Way! What Carts I Shall Fling Carelessly Into The Ditch In The Wake Of My Magnificent Onset!

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.

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.