The Wind in the Willows

by Kenneth Grahame

Mole makes friends easily; he is a seeker, and he reminds us that too much seclusion, too much time in our “cellerages,” will dull our hearing and more.

Mole is hardworking, earnest, eager; Ratty—except for one brief encounter with the Sea Rat in the “Wayfarers All” chapter—is content with his life at the river’s edge; the Badger is secretive, haughty, slightly aggressive; and Toad, that bacchanalian amphibian, is wild, exuberant, acquisitive, and tending toward the arrogant.

In detailing the relationships between Mole and his friends, Grahame communicates deep truths about the human heart. They care about one another in encouraging and supportive ways.

And that is the point . . . the wind in the reeds. Listening to that gentle sound, following it down the river. It’s a reminder to search in quiet places, to stay alert for the smallest stirrings.

Any child will agree with the American poet Walt Whitman when he says: “To me every hour of the day and night is an unspeakably perfect miracle.”

In my tales about children, I have tried to show that their simple acceptance of the mood of wonderment, their readiness to welcome a perfect miracle at any

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hour of the day or night, is a thing more precious than any of the labored acquisitions of adult mankind.

Every animal, by instinct, lives according to his nature. Thereby he lives wisely, and betters the tradition of mankind. No animal is ever tempted to deny his nature.

No animal knows how to tell a lie. Every animal is honest. Every animal is true—and is, therefore, according to his nature, both beautiful and good.

The Wind in the Willows has become a classic, loved by children and adults alike. Its truths are so deep and true, its language so beautiful.

Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even

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his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing.

Never in his life had he seen a river before—this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and leaving them with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that shook themselves free, and were caught and held again.

By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound 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.

there is nothing—absolutely nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.

that’s the charm of it. Whether you get away, or whether you don’t; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you’re always busy, and you never do anything in particular;

and when you’ve

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done it there’s always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, bu...

The Mole knew well that it is quite against animal-etiquette to dwell on possible trouble ahead, or even to allude to it;

“Toad’s out,

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“In his brand-new wager-boat; new togs, new everything!”

It’s all the same, whatever he takes up; he gets tired of it, and starts on something fresh.”

Mole recollected that animal-etiquette forbade any sort of comment on the sudden disappearance of one’s friends at any moment, for any reason or no reason whatever.

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.

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;

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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.

“Do be quiet a minute, Toad,” said the girl. “You talk too much, that’s your chief fault, and I’m trying to think, and you hurt my head.