The Wind in the Willows

by Kenneth Grahame

It was a cold, still afternoon with a hard, steely sky overhead, when he slipped out of the warm parlour into the open air. The country lay bare and entirely leafless around him, and he thought that he had never seen so far and so intimately into the insides of things as on that winter day when Nature was deep in her annual slumber and seemed to have kicked the clothes off. Copses, dells, quarries and all hidden places, which had been mysterious mines for exploration in leafy summer, now exposed themselves and their secrets pathetically,

He was glad that he liked the country undecorated, hard, and stripped of its finery. He had got down to the bare bones of it, and they were fine and strong and simple. He did not want the warm clover and the play of seeding grasses; the screens of quickset, the billowy drapery of beech and elm seemed best away; and with great cheerfulness of spirit he pushed on towards the Wild Wood, which lay before him low and threatening, like a black reef in some still southern sea.

The Mole was greatly cheered by the sound of the Rat’s careless laughter, as well as by the sight of his stick and his gleaming pistols, and he stopped shivering and began to feel bolder and more himself again.

Pistols are cosy in this story. It works, ok??

Can we eat a doormat? Or sleep under a door-mat? Or sit on a door-mat and sledge home over the snow on it, you exasperating rodent?” “Do—you—mean—to—say,” cried the excited Rat, “that this door-mat doesn’t tell you anything?” “Really, Rat,” said the Mole, quite pettishly, “I think we’ve had enough of this folly. Who ever heard of a door-mat telling anyone anything? They simply don’t do it. They are not that sort at all. Door-mats know their place.”

DOOR MATS KNOW THEIR PLACE

In the side of what had seemed to be a snow-bank stood a solid-looking little door, painted a dark green. An iron bell-pull hung by the side, and below it, on a small brass plate, neatly engraved in square capital letters, they could read by the aid of moonlight: MR. BADGER.

Ok, do we need to Speak Friend and Enter??

The kindly Badger thrust them down on a settle to toast themselves at the fire, and bade them remove their wet coats and boots. Then he fetched them dressing-gowns and slippers, and himself bathed the Mole’s shin with warm water and mended the cut with sticking-plaster till the whole thing was just as good as new, if not better. In the embracing light and warmth, warm and dry at last, with weary legs propped up in front of them, and a suggestive clink of plates being arranged on the table behind, it seemed to the storm-driven animals, now in safe anchorage, that the cold and trackless Wild Wood just left outside was miles and miles away, and all that they had suffered in it a half-forgotten dream.

COZY ALERT

Most of the low latticed windows were innocent of blinds, and to the lookers-in from outside, the inmates, gathered round 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 smouldering log.

One of the cosiest passages in the cosiest chapter on all British literature, “Dulce Domo”

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.

Some of this is closer to poetry than prose

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, some time, 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.

Ok, you’re just showing off now

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.

OH MY GOODNESS THE MOLE HAS GOTHIC LETTERING

“Prisoner! Pull yourself together and try and stand up straight. It’s going to be twenty years for you this time. And mind, if you appear before us again, upon any charge whatever, we shall have to deal with you very seriously!”

This is pure late Victorian satire, Gilbert and Sullivan approve!

up time-worn winding stairs, past men-at-arms in casquet and corselet of steel, darting threatening looks through their vizards; across courtyards, where mastiffs strained at their leash and pawed the air to get at him; past ancient warders, their halberds leant against the wall, dozing over a pasty and a flagon of brown ale; on and on, past the rack-chamber and the thumbscrew-room, past the turning that led to the private scaffold, till they reached the door of the grimmest dungeon that lay in the heart of the innermost keep. There at last they paused, where an ancient gaoler sat fingering a bunch of mighty keys.

NO LONGER COSY, NOW GOTHIC

he was possessed in all his senses by this new divine thing that caught up his helpless soul and swung and dandled it, a powerless but happy infant in a strong sustaining grasp.

of kitchen-gardens, and straight herb-borders, and warm snap-dragon beset by bees; and of the comforting clink of dishes set down on the table at Toad Hall, and the scrape of chair-legs on the floor as every one pulled himself close up to his work.

I’m sorry, but Kenneth Grahame invented the cozy fantasy in 1908 and that same year it peaked. Pack up your things and go home, friends.

When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in it in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one’s ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender;

SEE WHAT I MEAN

“Toad,” she said presently, “just listen, please. I have an aunt who is a washerwoman.” “There, there,” said Toad, graciously and affably, “never mind; think no more about it. I have several aunts who ought to be washerwomen.”

A railway station is the thing I want most in the whole world at this moment; and what’s more, I needn’t go through the town to get it, and shan’t have to support this humiliating character by repartees which, though thoroughly effective, do not assist one’s sense of self-respect.”

Toad disguised as a low status woman and experiencing relentless workplace harassment is PERFECTION

To his horror he recollected that he had left both coat and waistcoat behind him in his cell, and with them his pocket-book, money, keys, watch, matches, pencil-case—all that makes life worth living, all that distinguishes the many-pocketed animal, the lord of creation, from the inferior one-pocketed or no-pocketed productions that hop or trip about permissively, unequipped for the real contest.

PG Wodehouse could have come up with this

An old gentleman who had been prodding him in the back for some moments here thrust him away, and, what was worse, addressed him as his good woman, which angered Toad more than anything that had occurred that evening.

Same, Toad, same

got some kids, too, waiting for you, I dare say?” “Any amount of ’em,” sobbed Toad. “And they’ll be hungry—and playing with matches—and upsetting lamps, the little innocents!—and quarrelling, and going on generally. O dear, O dear!”

Has he met my children?

And the sight of an animal in tears always makes me feel queer and soft-hearted.

Mr Grahame, sir! I see what you are doing!!

as he lay in bed at night he thought he could make out, passing in the darkness overhead, the beat and quiver of impatient pinions,

POETRY I TELL YOU

The Rat, with a snort of contempt, swung round to go, tripped over a hat-box, and fell, with undignified remarks.

I would go to author heaven if I wrote a sentence this good.

“First, we feel it stirring within us, a sweet unrest; then back come the recollections one by one, like homing pigeons. They flutter through our dreams at night, they fly with us in our wheelings and circlings by day. We hunger to inquire of each other, to compare notes and assure ourselves that it was all really true, as one by one the scents and sounds and names of long-forgotten places come gradually back and beckon to us.”

“In due time,” said the third, “we shall be home-sick once more for quiet water-lilies swaying on the surface of an English stream. But to-day all that seems pale and thin and very far away. Just now our blood dances to other music.” They fell a-twittering among themselves once more, and this time their intoxicating babble was of violet seas, tawny sands, and lizard-haunted walls.

LIZARD HAUNTED WALLS! *throws laptop into the sea*

He rose and descended river-wards once more;

My editor is not going to like it when I put river-wards in my next book but that’s just too bad

By this time their meal was over, and the Seafarer, refreshed and strengthened, his voice more vibrant, his eye lit with a brightness that seemed caught from some far-away sea-beacon, filled his glass with the red and glowing vintage of the South, and, leaning towards the Water Rat, compelled his gaze and held him, body and soul, while he talked. Those eyes were of the changing foam-streaked grey-green of leaping Northern seas; in the glass shone a hot ruby that seemed the very heart of the South, beating for him who had courage to respond to its pulsation. The twin lights, the shifting grey and the steadfast red, mastered the Water Rat and held

The Sea Rat developing eyes that could be those of a shadow daddy in a 2025 romantasy was not among my predictions for this increasingly unhinged chapter 💀

He talked of the reddening apples around, of the browning nuts, of jams and preserves and the distilling of cordials;

BRAMBLY HEDGE I SEE YOU THERE

“It’s quite a long time since you did any poetry,” he remarked. “You might have a try at it this evening, instead of—well, brooding over things so much. I’ve an idea that you’ll feel a lot better when you’ve got something jotted down—if it’s only just the rhymes.”

Mole prescribing poetry mood journaling for Ratty’s mental health also not on my bingo card for this chapter

There’s a heap of things of mine that you’ll find in a corner of the cabin. If you’ll just take one or two of the most necessary sort—I won’t venture to describe them to a lady like you, but you’ll recognise them at a glance—and put them through the wash-tub as we go along, why, it’ll be a pleasure to you, as you rightly say, and a real help to me.

“Wash my dirty undies” says the barge woman and this is really no more than Toad deserves

He tried coaxing, he tried slapping, he tried punching; they smiled back at him out of the tub unconverted, happy in their original sin.

This is the best description of unsuccessful laundering ever, complete with theological metaphor

He tilted up the pot, and a glorious stream of hot rich stew gurgled into the plate. It was, indeed, the most beautiful stew in the world, being made of partridges, and pheasants, and chickens, and hares, and rabbits, and peahens, and guinea-fowls, and one or two other things.

My child was already disturbed by the animals who eat meat in this story, ok?? This is laying it on a bit thick!

“The army all saluted As they marched along the road. Was it the King? Or Kitchener? No. It was Mr. Toad.

Love a Kitchener sighting

I’ve had enough of adventures. I shall lead a quiet, steady, respectable life, pottering about my property, and improving it, and doing a little landscape gardening at times. There will always be a bit of dinner for my friends when they come to see me; and I shall keep a pony-chaise to jog about the country in, just as I used to in the good old days, before I got restless, and wanted to do things.”