Weasels--and Stoats--and Foxes--and So On. They're All

Why Can't Fellows Be Allowed To Do What They Like When They Like And As They Like, Instead Of Other Fellows Sitting On Banks And Watching Them All The Time And Making Remarks And Poetry And Things About Them?

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.

The Past Was Like A Bad Dream; The Future Was All Happy Holiday As I Moved Southwards Week By Week, Easily, Lazily, Lingering As Long As I Dared, But Always Heeding The Call!

All Along The Backwater, Through The Rushes Tall, Ducks Are A-dabbling, Up Tails All!

In Midmost Of The Stream, Embraced In The Weir's Shimmering Arm-spread, A Small Island Lay Anchored, Fringed Close With Willow And Silver Birch And Alder. Reserved, Shy, But Full Of Significance, It Hid Whatever It Might Hold Behind A Veil, Keeping It Till The Hour Should Come, And, With The Hour, Those Who Were Called And Chosen.