Вітер у вербах

           Hispaperofhalf-finishedversesslippedfromhisknee,hisheadfellback,hismouthopened,andhewanderedbytheverdantbanksofdream-rivers.Thenacoalslipped,thefirecrackledandsentupaspurtofflame,andhewokewithastart.Rememberingwhathehadbeenengagedupon,hereacheddowntothefloorforhisverses,poredoverthemforaminute,andthenlookedroundfortheMoletoaskhimifheknewagoodrhymeforsomethingorother.

           ButtheMolewasnotthere.

           Helistenedforatime.Thehouseseemedveryquiet.

           Thenhecalled"Moly!"severaltimes,and,receivingnoanswer,gotupandwentoutintothehall.

           TheMole’scapwasmissingfromitsaccustomedpeg.Hisgoloshes,whichalwayslaybytheumbrella-stand,werealsogone.

           TheRatleftthehouse,andcarefullyexaminedthemuddysurfaceofthegroundoutside,hopingtofindtheMole’stracks.Theretheywere,sureenough.Thegolosheswerenew,justboughtforthewinter,andthepimplesontheirsoleswerefreshandsharp.Hecouldseetheimprintsoftheminthemud,runningalongstraightandpurposeful,leadingdirecttotheWildWood.

           TheRatlookedverygrave,andstoodindeepthoughtforaminuteortwo.Thenhere-enteredthehouse,strappedabeltroundhiswaist,shovedabraceofpistolsintoit,tookupastoutcudgelthatstoodinacornerofthehall,andsetofffortheWildWoodatasmartpace.