The River Bank

           THEMolehadbeenworkingveryhardallthemorning,spring-cleaninghislittlehome.Firstwithbrooms,thenwithdusters;thenonladdersandstepsandchairs,withabrushandapailofwhitewash;tillhehaddustinhisthroatandeyes,andsplashesofwhitewashalloverhisblackfur,andanachingbackandwearyarms.Springwasmovingintheairaboveandintheearthbelowandaroundhim,penetratingevenhisdarkandlowlylittlehousewithitsspiritofdivinediscontentandlonging.Itwassmallwonder,then,thathesuddenlyflungdownhisbrushonthefloor,said,"Bother!"and"Oblow!"andalso"Hangspring-cleaning!"andboltedoutofthehousewithoutevenwaitingtoputonhiscoat.Somethingupabovewascallinghimimperiously,andhemadeforthesteeplittletunnelwhichansweredinhiscasetothegravelledcarriage-driveownedbyanimalswhoseresidencesarenearertothesunandair.Sohescrapedandscratchedandscrabbledandscrooged,andthenhescroogedagainandscrabbledandscratchedandscraped,workingbusilywithhislittlepawsandmutteringtohimself,"Upwego!Upwego!"tillatlast,pop!hissnoutcameoutintothesunlightandhefoundhimselfrollinginthewarmgrassofagreatmeadow.

           "Thisisfine!"hesaidtohimself."Thisisbetterthanwhitewashing!"Thesunshinestruckhotonhisfur,softbreezescaressedhisheatedbrow,andaftertheseclusionofthecellaragehehadlivedinsolongthecarolofhappybirdsfellonhisdulledhearingalmostlikeashout.