Вітер у вербах

           Hebreathedshort,hisfaceworeaplacid,satisfiedexpression,andatintervalshefaintlymurmured"Poop-poop!"

           TheMolewasbusytryingtoquietthehorse,whichhesucceededindoingafteratime.Thenhewenttolookatthecart,onitssideintheditch.Itwasindeedasorrysight.Panelsandwindowssmashed,axleshopelesslybent,onewheeloff,sardine-tinsscatteredoverthewideworld,andthebirdinthebird-cagesobbingpitifullyandcallingtobeletout.

           TheRatcametohelphim,buttheirunitedeffortswerenotsufficienttorightthecart."Hi!Toad!"theycried."Comeandbearahand,can’tyou!"

           TheToadneveransweredaword,orbudgedfromhisseatintheroad;sotheywenttoseewhatwasthematterwithhim.Theyfoundhiminasortofatrance,ahappysmileonhisface,hiseyesstillfixedonthedustywakeoftheirdestroyer.Atintervalshewasstillheardtomurmur"Poop-poop!"

           TheRatshookhimbytheshoulder."Areyoucomingtohelpus,Toad?"hedemandedsternly.

           "Glorious,stirringsight!"murmuredToad,neverofferingtomove."Thepoetryofmotion!Therealwaytotravel!Theonlywaytotravel!Hereto-day—innextweekto-morrow!Villagesskipped,townsandcitiesjumped—alwayssomebodyelse’shorizon!Obliss!Opoop-poop!Omy!Omy!"

           "Ostopbeinganass,Toad!"criedtheMoledespairingly.