The Piper at the Gates of Dawn

           THEWillow-Wrenwastwitteringhisthinlittlesong,hiddenhimselfinthedarkselvedgeoftheriverbank.Thoughitwaspastteno’clockatnight,theskystillclungtoandretainedsomelingeringskirtsoflightfromthedepartedday;andthesullenheatsofthetorridafternoonbrokeupandrolledawayatthedispersingtouchofthecoolfingersoftheshortmidsummernight.Molelaystretchedonthebank,stillpantingfromthestressofthefiercedaythathadbeencloudlessfromdawntolatesunset,andwaitedforhisfriendtoreturn.Hehadbeenontheriverwithsomecompanions,leavingtheWaterRatfreetokeepanengagementoflongstandingwithOtter;andhehadcomebacktofindthehousedarkanddeserted,andnosignofRat,whowasdoubtlesskeepingituplatewithhisoldcomrade.Itwasstilltoohottothinkofstayingindoors,sohelayonsomecooldock-leaves,andthoughtoverthepastdayanditsdoings,andhowverygoodtheyallhadbeen.

           TheRat’slightfootfallwaspresentlyheardapproachingovertheparchedgrass."O,theblessedcoolness!"hesaid,andsatdown,gazingthoughtfullyintotheriver,silentandpre-occupied.

           "Youstayedtosupper,ofcourse?"saidtheMolepresently.

           "Simplyhadto,"saidtheRat."Theywouldn’thearofmygoingbefore.Youknowhowkindtheyalwaysare.Andtheymadethingsasjollyformeasevertheycould,rightuptothemomentIleft.