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           "Well,well,itcan’tbehelped,"saidtheRat,afterpondering."Wemustmakeastart,andtakeourchance,Isuppose.Theworstofitis,Idon’texactlyknowwhereweare.Andnowthissnowmakeseverythinglooksoverydifferent."

           Itdidindeed.TheMolewouldnothaveknownthatitwasthesamewood.However,theysetoutbravely,andtookthelinethatseemedmostpromising,holdingontoeachotherandpretendingwithinvinciblecheerfulnessthattheyrecognisedanoldfriendineveryfreshtreethatgrimlyandsilentlygreetedthem,orsawopenings,gaps,orpathswithafamiliarturninthem,inthemonotonyofwhitespaceandblacktree-trunksthatrefusedtovary.

           Anhourortwolater—theyhadlostallcountoftime—theypulledup,dispirited,weary,andhopelesslyatsea,andsatdownonafallentree-trunktorecovertheirbreathandconsiderwhatwastobedone.Theywereachingwithfatigueandbruisedwithtumbles;theyhadfallenintoseveralholesandgotwetthrough;thesnowwasgettingsodeepthattheycouldhardlydragtheirlittlelegsthroughit,andthetreeswerethickerandmorelikeeachotherthanever.Thereseemedtobenoendtothiswood,andnobeginning,andnodifferenceinit,and,worstofall,nowayout.

           "Wecan’tsithereverylong,"saidtheRat."Weshallhavetomakeanotherpushforit,anddosomethingorother.Thecoldistooawfulforanything,andthesnowwillsoonbetoodeepforustowadethrough.