Wind In The Willows 5 With English Author S D Hudson Magic

This is Chapter 5 of the Wind in the Willows with the soothing sounds of S D Hudson Magic. In this Chapter, the mole realises the home he left behind and seeks to recover some of those memories lost. If you like this reading, you will be sure to like Tales of the Neworld by S D Hudson Magic.

Allow yourself to escape with the authentic English voice of author S D Hudson. Take a look at her Tales of the Neworld featuring the #oosamagoose if you like what you hear.

Transcript

Hello.

This is SD Hudson Magic.

Welcome to my story series,

Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Graham.

Before we begin,

Let's get comfortable.

Settle back in your chair,

Or perhaps in your bed.

Take a deep breath in through your nose,

Then let it out on a long sigh.

That's it.

It is time to relax and fully let go.

Listen to the words I speak,

And settle down safe in the knowledge you can escape from all the busyness of the day.

Chapter 5 Dulce Domum The sheep ran huddling together against the hurdles,

Blowing out thin nostrils and stamping with delicate forefeet,

Their heads thrown back and a light steam rising from the crowded sheep pen into the frosty air as the two animals hastened by in high spirits with much chatter and laughter.

They were returning across country after a long day's outing with Otter,

Hunting and exploring on the wide uplands where certain streams and tributary to their own river had their first small beginnings,

And the shades of the short winter day were closing in on them and they had still some distance to go.

Plodding at random across the plough,

They had heard the sheep and had made for them,

And now,

Leading from the sheep pen,

They found a beaten track that made walking a lighter business and responded,

Moreover,

To that small inquiring something which all animals carry inside them,

Saying unmistakably,

Yes,

Quite right,

This leads home.

It looks as if we're coming to a village,

Said the Mole somewhat dubiously,

Slacking his pace as the track that had in time become a path and then had developed into a lane,

Now handed them over to the charge of a well-metalled road.

The animals did not hold with villages,

And their own highways,

Thickly frequented as they were,

Took an independent course,

Regardless of church,

Post office or public house.

Oh,

Never mind,

Said the Rat,

At this season of the year they're all safe indoors by this time,

Sitting around the fire,

Men,

Women,

Children,

Dogs,

Cats and all.

We shall slip through all right without any bother or unpleasantness,

And we can have a look at them through their windows if you like and see what they're doing.

The rapid nightfall of mid-December had quite beset the little village as they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery snow.

Little was visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either side of the street where the firelight or lamplight of each cottage overflowed through the casements into the dark world without.

Most of the low lattice windows were innocent of blinds,

And to the lookers-in from outside,

The inmates gathered around the tea table,

Absorbed in handiwork or talking with laughter and gesture,

Had each that happy grace which is the last thing the skilled actor shall capture,

The natural grace which goes with perfect unconsciousness of observation.

Moving at will from one theatre to another,

The two spectators,

So far from home themselves,

Had something of wistfulness in their eyes as they watched a cat being stroked,

A sleepy child picked up and huddled off to bed,

Or a tired man stretch and knock out his pipe on the end of a smoldering log.

But it was from one little window,

With its blind drawn down,

A mere blank transparency on the night,

That the sense of home in the little curtained world within walls,

The larger stressful world of outside nature shut out and forgotten,

Most pulsated.

Close against the white blind hung a birdcage,

Clearly silhouetted,

Every wire,

Perch and appurtenance distinct and recognisable,

Even to yesterday's dull-edged lump of sugar.

On the middle perch the fluffy occupant,

Head tucked well into feathers,

Seemed so near to them as to be easily stroked,

Had they tried.

Even the delicate tips of his plumped-out plumage penciled plainly on the illuminated screen.

As they looked,

The sleepy little fellow stirred uneasily,

Woke,

Shook himself,

And raised his head.

They could see the gape of his tiny beak as he yawned in a bored sort of way,

Looked around,

And then settled his head into his back again,

While the ruffled feathers gradually subsided into perfect stillness.

Then a gust of bitter wind took them in the back of the neck,

A small sting of frozen sleet on the skin woke them as from a dream,

And they knew their toes to be cold and their legs tired,

And their own home distant a weary way.

Once beyond the village,

Where the cottages ceased abruptly on either side of the road,

They could smell through the darkness the friendly fields again,

And they braced themselves for the last long stretch,

The home stretch,

The stretch that we know is bound to end,

Sometime in the rattle of the door latch,

The sudden firelight,

And the sight of familiar things,

Greeting us as long,

Absent travellers from far over sea.

They plodded along steadily and silently,

Each of them thinking his own thoughts.

The moles ran a good deal on supper,

As it was pitch dark,

And it was all a strange country to him as far as he knew,

And he was following obediently in the wake of the rat leaving the guidance entirely to him.

As for the rat,

He was walking a little way ahead,

As his habit was,

His shoulders humped,

His eyes fixed on the straight grey road in front of him,

So he did not notice poor Mole when suddenly the summons reached him,

And took him like an electric shock.

We others,

Who have long lost the more subtle of the physical senses,

Have not even proper terms to address an animal's intercommunications with his surroundings,

Living or otherwise,

And have only the word smell,

For instance,

To include the whole range of delicate thrills which murmur in the nose of the animal night and day,

Summoning,

Warning,

Enticing,

Repelling.

It was one of these mysterious fairy calls from out the void that suddenly reached Mole in the darkness,

Making him tingle through and through with its very familiar appeal,

Even while as yet he could not clearly remember what it was.

He stopped dead in his tracks,

His nose searching hither and thither in its efforts,

To recapture the fine filament,

The telegraphic current,

That had so strongly moved him.

A moment,

And he had caught it again,

And with it this time came recollection in fullest flood.

Home!

That's what they meant,

Those caressing appeals,

Those soft touches wafted through the air,

Those invisible little hands pulling and tugging all one way.

Why,

It must be quite close by him at that moment,

His old home that he had hurriedly forsaken and never sought again that day,

When he first found the river.

And now it was sending out its scouts and its messengers to capture him and bring him in.

Since his escape on that bright morning,

He had hardly given it a thought,

So absorbed had he been in his new life,

In all its pleasures,

Its surprises,

Its fresh and captivating experiences.

Now,

With a rush of old memories,

How clearly it stood up before him in the darkness,

Shabby indeed and small and poorly furnished,

And yet his,

The home he had made for himself,

The home he had been so happy to get back to after his day's work.

And the home had been happy with him too,

Evidently,

And was missing him and wanted him back,

And was telling him so,

Through his nose,

Sorrowfully,

Reproachfully,

But with no bitterness or anger,

Only with plaintive reminder that it was there and wanted him.

The call was clear,

The summons was plain,

He must obey it instantly and go.

Ratty!

He called,

Full of joyful excitement.

Hold on,

Come back,

I want you quick!

Oh,

Come on,

Mole,

Do!

Replied the Rat cheerfully,

Still plodding along.

Please stop,

Ratty!

Pleaded the poor Mole in anguish of heart.

You don't understand,

It's my home,

My old home!

I've just come across the smell of it,

And it's close by here,

Really quite close,

And I must go to it,

I must,

I must!

Oh,

Come back,

Ratty,

Please,

Please come back!

The Rat was by this time very far ahead,

Too far to hear clearly what the Mole was calling,

Too far to catch the sharp note of painful appeal in his voice,

And he was much taken up with the weather,

For he too could smell something,

Something suspiciously like approaching snow.

Mole,

We mustn't stop now,

Really!

He called back.

We'll come for it tomorrow,

Whatever it is you've found,

But I daren't stop now,

It's late,

And the snow's coming on again,

And I'm not sure of the way,

And I want your nose,

Mole,

So come on quick,

There's a good fellow!

And the Rat pressed forward on his way,

Without waiting for an answer.

Poor Mole stood alone in the road,

His heart torn asunder,

And a big sob gathering,

Gathering somewhere low down inside him,

To leap up to the surface presently he knew in passionate escape.

But even after such a test as this,

His loyalty to his friends stood firm.

Never for a moment did he dream of abandoning him.

Meanwhile,

The wafts from his old home pleaded,

Whispered,

Conjured,

And finally claimed him imperiously.

He dared not tarry longer within their magic circle.

With a wrench that tore his very heartstrings,

He set his face down the road,

And followed submissively in the track of the Rat,

While faint,

Thin little smells,

Still dogging his retreating nose,

Reproached him for his new friendship and his callous forgetfulness.

With an effort he caught up the unsuspecting Rat,

Who began chatting cheerfully about what they would do when they got back,

And how jolly a fire of logs in the parlour would be,

And what a supper he meant to eat,

Never noticing his companion's silence and distressful state of mind.

At last,

However,

When they had gone some considerable way further,

And were passing some tree-stumps at the edge of a cobs that bordered the road,

He stopped and said kindly,

Look here,

Mole,

Old chap,

You seem dead tired.

No talk left in you,

And your feet dragging like lead.

Well,

Sit down here for a minute and rest.

The snow's held off so far,

And the best part of our journey's over.

The Mole subsided forlornly on a tree-stump,

And tried to control himself,

For he felt it surely coming.

The sob he had fought with so long refused to be beaten.

Up and up it forced its way to the air,

And then another,

And another,

And others thickened fast,

Till poor Mole at last gave up the struggle,

And cried freely and helplessly and openly,

Now that he knew it was all over,

And he had lost what he could hardly be said to have found.

The Rat,

Astonished and dismayed at the violence of Mole's paroxysm of grief,

Did not dare to speak for a while.

At last he said very quietly and sympathetically,

What is it,

Old fellow?

Whatever can be the matter?

Tell us your trouble,

And let me see what I can do.

Poor Mole found it difficult to get any words out between the upheavals of his chest,

That followed one upon another so quickly,

And held back speech and choked it as it came.

I know it's a shabby,

Dingy little place,

He sobbed forth at last brokenly.

Not like your cosy quarters,

Or Toad's beautiful hall,

Or Badger's great house,

But it was my own little home,

And I was fond of it,

And I went away,

And forgot all about it,

And then I smelt it suddenly on the road when I called,

And you wouldn't listen,

Rat,

And everything came back to me with a rush,

And I wanted it.

Oh dear,

Oh dear.

And when you wouldn't turn back,

Ratty,

And I had to leave it though I was smelling it all the time,

I thought my heart would break.

We might have just gone and had one look at it,

Ratty,

Only one look.

It was close by,

But you wouldn't turn back,

Ratty,

You wouldn't turn back.

Oh dear,

Oh dear.

Recollection brought fresh waves of sorrow,

And sobs again took full charge of him,

Preventing further speech.

The Rat stared straight in front of him,

Saying nothing,

Only patting Mole gently on the shoulder.

After a time,

He muttered gloomily,

I see it all now,

What a pig I've been,

A pig,

That's me,

Just a pig,

A plain pig.

He waited till Mole's sobs became gradually less stormy and more rhythmical.

He waited till at last sniffs were frequent and sobs only intermittent.

Then he rose from his seat,

And remarking carelessly,

Well now,

We'd better be getting on,

Old chap,

Set off up the road again,

Over the toilsome way they had come.

Where,

Wherever you going,

Going to,

Ratty?

Cried the tearful Mole,

Looking up in alarm.

We're going to find that home of yours,

Old fellow,

Replied the Rat pleasantly,

So you'd better come along,

For it'll take some finding and we'll watch your nose.

Oh,

Come back,

Ratty,

Do!

Cried the Mole,

Getting up and hurrying after him.

It's no good,

I tell you,

It's too late and it's too dark,

And the place is too far off,

And the snow's coming,

And I never meant to let you know I was feeling that way about it.

It was all an accident and a mistake,

And think of Riverbank and your supper.

Hang Riverbank and supper too,

Said the Rat heartily.

I tell you,

I'm going to find this place now if I stay out all night,

So cheer up,

Old chap,

And take my arm,

And we'll very soon be back there again.

Still snuffling,

Pleading and reluctant,

Mole suffered himself to be dragged back along the road by his imperious companion,

Who by a flow of cheerful talk and anecdote endeavoured to beguile his spirits back and make the weary way seem shorter.

When at last it seemed to the Rat that they must be nearing the part of the road where the Mole had been held up,

He said,

Now no more talking,

Business,

Use your nose and give your mind to it.

They moved on in silence for some way,

When suddenly the Rat was conscious,

Through his arm that was linked in moles,

Of a faint sort of electric thrill that was passing down that animal's body.

Instantly he disengaged himself,

Fell back apace and waited,

All attention.

The signals were coming through.

Then a short,

Quick run forwards,

A fort,

A check,

A try-pack,

And then a slow,

Steady,

Confident advance.

The Rat,

Much excited,

Kept close to his heels as the Mole,

With something of the air of a sleepwalker,

Crossed a dry ditch,

Scrambled through a hedge and nosed his way over a field,

Open and trackless and bare in the faint starlight.

Suddenly,

Without giving warning,

He dived,

But the Rat was on the alert and promptly followed him down the tunnel to where his unerring nose had faithfully led him.

It was close and airless,

And the earthy smell was strong,

And it seemed a long time to Rat ere the passage ended and he could stand erect and stretch and shake himself.

The Mole struck a match,

And by its light the Rat saw that they were standing in an open space,

Neatly swept and sanded underfoot,

And directly facing them was Mole's little front door,

With Mole end painted in Gothic lettering over the bell-pull at the side.

Mole reached down a lantern from a nail on the wall and lit it,

And the Rat looking around him saw that they were in a sort of forecourt.

A garden seat stood on one side of the door,

And on the other a roller,

For the Mole,

Who was a tidy animal when at home,

Could not stand having his ground kicked up by other animals into little runs that ended up in earth heaps.

On the walls hung wire baskets with ferns in them,

Alternating with brackets carrying plaster statuary,

Garibaldi and the infant Samuel and Queen Victoria and other heroes of modern Italy.

Down one side of the forecourt ran a skittle alley,

With benches along it and little wooden tables marked with rings that hinted at beer marks.

In the middle was a small round pond containing goldfish and surrounded by a cockle-shell border.

Out of the centre of the pond rose a fanciful erection clothed in more cockle-shells,

And topped by a large silvered glass ball that reflected everything all wrong,

And had a very pleasing effect.

Mole's face beamed at the sight of all these objects so dear to him,

And he hurried Rat through the door,

Lit a lamp in the hall,

And took one glance round his old home.

He saw the dust lying thick on everything,

Saw the cheerless deserted look of the long neglected house and its narrow meagre dimensions,

Its worn and shabby contents,

And collapsed again on a hall chair,

His nose in his paws.

Oh Ratty!

He cried dismally,

Why ever did I do it?

Why did I bring you to this poor cold little place on a night like this,

When you might have been at River Bank by this time,

Toasting your toes before a blazing fire with all your nice things about you?

The Rat paid no heed to his doleful self-reproaches.

He was running here and there,

Opening doors,

Inspecting rooms and cupboards,

And lighting lamps and candles,

And sticking them up everywhere.

What a capital little house this is,

He called out cheerily,

So compact,

So well planned,

Everything here and everything in its place.

We'll make a jolly night of it.

The first thing we want is a good fire,

I'll see to that.

I always know where to find things.

So this is the parlour,

Splendid,

Your own idea,

Those little sleeping bunks in the wall,

Capital.

Now I'll fetch the wood and the coals and get a duster.

Mole,

You'll find one in the drawer of the kitchen table and try and smarten things up a bit.

Bustle about,

Old chap.

Encouraged by his inspiriting companion,

The Mole roused himself and dusted and polished with energy and heartiness,

While the Rat,

Running to and fro with armfuls of fuel,

Soon had a cheerful blaze roaring up the chimney.

He hailed the Mole to come and warm himself,

But Mole promptly had another fit of the blues,

Dropping down on a couch in dark despair and burying his face in his duster.

Rat,

He moaned,

How about your supper,

You poor,

Cold,

Hungry,

Weary animal?

I've nothing to give you,

Nothing,

Not a crumb.

What a fellow you are for giving in,

Said the Rat reproachfully.

Why,

Only just now I saw a sardine opener on the kitchen dresser,

Quite distinctly,

And everybody knows that means there are sardines about somewhere in the neighbourhood.

Rouse yourself,

Pull yourself together and come with me and forage.

They went and foraged accordingly,

Hunting through every cupboard and turning out every drawer.

The result was not so very depressing after all,

Though of course it might have been better.

A tin of sardines,

A box of captain's biscuits nearly full,

And a German sausage encased in silver paper.

There's a banquet for you,

Observed the Rat as he arranged the table.

I know some animals who'll give their ears to be sitting down to suffer with us tonight.

No bread,

Groaned the Mole dollarsly,

No butter,

No pâté de foie gras,

No champagne,

Continued the Rat,

Grinning,

And that reminds me,

What's that little door at the end of the passage?

Your cellar,

Of course,

Every luxury in this house,

Just you wait a moment.

He made for the cellar door and presently reappeared,

Somewhat dusty,

With a bottle of beer in each paw and another under each arm.

Self-indulgent beggar you seem to be,

Mole.

He observed,

Deny yourself nothing,

This is really the jolliest little place I ever was in.

Now wherever did you pick up those prints?

Make the place look so home-like they do.

No wonder you're so fond of it,

Mole.

Tell us all about it and how you came to make it what it was.

Then while the Rat busied himself fetching plates and knives and forks and mustard which he mixed in an egg-cup,

The Mole,

His bosom still heaving with the stress of his recent emotion,

Related,

Somewhat shyly at first but with more freedom as he warmed to his subject,

How this was planned and how that was thought out and how this was got for a windfall from an aunt and how that was a wonderful find in a bargain and this other thing was brought out of laborious savings and a certain amount of going without.

His spirits finally quite restored.

He must needs go and caress his possessions and take a lamp and show off their points to his visitor and expatiate on them,

Quite forgetful of the supper they both so much needed.

Rat,

Who was desperately hungry but strove to conceal it,

Nodding seriously,

Examining with a puckered brow and saying,

Wonderful and most remarkable,

At intervals,

When the chance for an observation was given him.

At last the Rat succeeded in decoying him to the table and had just got seriously to work with a sardine opener,

When sounds were heard from the forecourt without,

Sounds like the scuffling of small feet in the gravel and a confused murmur of tiny voices while broken sentences reached them.

No,

All in a line.

Hold up the lantern a bit,

Tommy.

Clear your throats first.

No coughing after I say one,

Two,

Three.

Where's young Bill?

Here,

Come on,

Do.

We're all awaiting.

What's up?

Inquired the Rat,

Pausing in his labours.

I think it must be the field mice,

Replied the Mole with a touch of pride in his manner.

They go round carol-singing regularly at this time of year.

They're quite an institution in these parts and they never pass me over.

They come to Mole End last of all,

And I used to give them hot drinks and supper too sometimes,

When I could afford it.

It'll be like old times to hear them again.

Let's have a look at them,

Cried the Rat,

Jumping up and running to the door.

It was a pretty sight and a seasonable one,

That met their eyes when they flung the door open.

In the forecourt,

Lit by the dim rays of a horned lantern,

Some eight or ten little field mice stood in a semi-circle,

Red-wursted comforters round their throats,

Their forepaws thrust deep into their pockets,

Their feet jigging for warmth.

With bright beady eyes,

They glanced shyly at each other,

Sniggering a little,

Sniffing and applying coat sleeves a good deal.

As the door opened,

One of the elder ones that carried the lantern was just saying,

One,

Two,

Three,

And forthwith their shrill little voices uproars on the air,

Singing one of the old-time carols that their forefathers composed in fields that were fallow and held by frost,

Or when snow bound in chimney corners and handed down to be sung in the miry street to lamplit windows at yule-time.

Villagers,

All this frosty tide,

Let your doors ring open wide,

Though wind may fall,

Oh snow beside,

Yet draw us in by your fire to fight.

Joy shall be yours in the morning.

Here we stand in the cold and the sleet,

Blowing finger-stamping feet.

Come from far away,

You to greet,

You by the fire and we in the street,

Bidding you joy in the morning.

For a one-half of a night was gone,

Sudden the storm has led us on,

Raining bliss and then his song,

Please tomorrow hand more anon.

Joy for every morning.

Goodman Joseph toiled through the snow,

Saw the star boys stay below,

Merry she might not further go,

Welcome thatch and litter below.

Joy was hers in the morning.

And then they heard the angels tell,

Who were the first to cry no well,

Animals all as it befell,

In the stable where they did dwell.

Joy shall be theirs in the morning.

The voices ceased,

The singers bashful but smiling,

Exchanged sidelong glances,

And silence succeeded,

But for a moment only.

Then from up above and far away,

Down the tunnel they had so lately travelled,

Was born to their ears in a faint musical hum,

The sound of distant bells ringing a joyful and clangorous peal.

Very well sung boys,

Cried the Rat heartily,

And now come along in all of you,

And warm yourselves by the fire and have something hot.

Yes,

Come along field mice,

Cried the Mole eagerly,

This is quite like old times.

Shut the door after you,

Pull up that settle to the fire,

Now you just wait a minute while we.

.

.

Oh Ratty,

He cried in despair,

Plumping down on a seat with tears impending.

Whatever were we doing with nothing to give them?

You leave all that to me,

Said the masterful Rat,

Here you with the lantern,

Come over this way,

I want to talk to you.

Now tell me,

Are there any shops open at this hour of the night?

Why certainly sir,

Replied the field mouse respectively,

At this time of the year our shops keep open to all sorts of hours.

Then look here,

Said the Rat,

You go off at once,

You and your lantern,

And you get me.

Here much muttered conversation ensued,

And the Mole only heard bits of it,

Such as,

Fresh mind?

No,

A pound of that'll do.

See you get bug insides for I won't have any other.

No,

Only the best.

If you can't get it there,

Try somewhere else.

Yes of course home-made,

No tin stuff.

Well then do the best you can.

Finally there was a chink of coin passing from paw to paw,

The field mouse was provided with an ample basket for his purchases,

And off he hurried,

He and his lantern.

The rest of the field mice perched in a row on the settle,

Their small legs swinging,

Gave themselves up to enjoyment of the fire,

And toasted their chillblains till they tingled,

While the Mole,

Failing to draw them into easy conversation,

Plunged into family history,

And made each of them recite the names of his numerous brothers,

Who were too young,

It appeared,

To be allowed to go out a caroling this year,

But looked forward very shortly to winning the parental consent.

The Rat meanwhile was busy examining the label on one of the beer bottles.

I perceive this to be old Burton,

He remarked approvingly,

Sensible Mole,

The very thing,

Now we should be able to mole some ale,

Get the things ready Mole,

While I draw the corks.

It did not take long to prepare the broom,

And thrust the tin heater well into the red heart of the fire,

And soon every field mouse was sipping and coughing and choking,

For a little mole d'al goes a long way,

And wiping his eyes and laughing and forgetting he had ever been cold in all his life.

They act plays too these fellows,

The Mole explained to the Rat,

Make them up all by themselves and act them afterwards,

And very well they do it too.

They gave us a capital one last year,

About a field mouse who was captured at sea by a Barbary corsair,

And made to row in a galley,

And when he escaped and got home again his lady love had gone into a convent.

Here,

You,

You were in it I remember,

Get up and recite a bit.

The field mouse addressed got up on his legs,

Giggled shyly,

Looked around the room,

And remained absolutely tongue-tied.

His comrades cheered him on,

Mole coaxed and encouraged him,

And the Rat went so fast to take him by the shoulders and shake him,

But nothing could overcome his stage fright.

They were all busily engaged on him like watermen applying the Royal Humane Society's regulations to a case of long submersion.

When the latch clicked,

The door opened,

And the field mouse with a lantern reappeared,

Staggering under the weight of his basket.

There was no more talk of play-acting once the very real and solid contents of the basket had been tumbled out on the table.

Under the general ship of Rat,

Everybody was set to do something or to fetch something.

In a very few minutes supper was ready,

And Mole,

As he took the head of the table in a sort of dream,

Saw a lately barren board set thick with savoury comforts,

Saw his little friends' faces brighten and beam as they fell to without delay,

And then let himself loose,

For he was famished indeed on the providence so magically provided,

Thinking what a happy homecoming this had turned out after all.

As they ate,

They talked of old times,

And the field mice gave him the local gossip up to date,

And answered as well as they could the hundred questions he had to ask them.

The Rat said little or nothing,

Only taking care that each guest had what he wanted,

And plenty of it,

And that Mole had no trouble or anxiety about anything.

They clattered off at last,

Very grateful and showering wishes of the season,

With their jacket pockets stuffed with remembrances for the small brothers and sisters at home.

When the door had closed on the last of them,

And the chink of the lanterns had died away,

Mole and Rat kicked the fire up,

Drew their chairs in,

Brewed themselves a last nightcap of mould ale,

And discussed the events of the long day.

At last the Rat,

With a tremendous yawn,

Said,

Mole,

Old chap,

I'm ready to drop,

Sleepy is simply not the word,

That your own bunk over on that side?

Very well then,

I'll take this.

What a ripping little house this is,

Everything so handy.

He clambered into his bunk,

And rolled himself well up in the blankets,

And slumber gathered him forthwith,

As a swath of barley is folded into the arms of the reaping machine.

The weary Mole also was glad to turn in without delay,

And soon had his head on his pillow,

In great joy and contentment.

But ere he closed his eyes,

He let them wander around his old room,

Mellow in the glow of the firelight that played or rested on familiar and friendly things,

Which had long been unconsciously a part of him,

And now smilingly received him back without rancour.

He was now in just the frame of mind that the tactful Rat had quietly worked to bring about in him.

He saw clearly how plain and simple,

How narrow even,

It all was,

But clearly too how much it all meant to him,

And the special value of some such anchorage in one's existence.

He did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces,

To turn his back on sun and air,

And all they offered him,

And creep home and stay there.

The upper world was all too strong,

It called to him still,

Even down there,

And he knew he must return to the larger stage.

But it was good to think he had this to come back to,

This place which was all his own,

These things which were so glad to see him again,

And could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome.

End of chapter 5 If you have enjoyed this reading,

Please seek out my Tales of the New World,

Stories I have written about an anthropomorphic haven high up at the top of Motherby Hill.

Reviews

I’ve listened to every chapter at least 10 times. Insight Timer has been part of my sleep routine for almost ten years. I try to change it up but this never gets old and her narration skills are next to none. Love all of her stuff but this one will always be my favorite!

I'm obsessed with these atm. A chapter every night. Told so well. It's just beautiful. I forgot about these stories. Thankyou :)

Another lovely tale thank you. Very much looking forward to the next one 🙏x

Lovely rendition! Nice singing also♥️

That was the best singing of the field mouse carol ever. You have a beautiful voice. Thank you!

I’m afraid I don’t ever get to the end of a story because I’m using these tales to get to sleep. In this way they are totally perfect! This woman has an absolutely delightful, relaxing slightly cheeky voice.