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  For Wayne Hollomon Price, who encouraged me to write this book, and who dreamt I conducted the 9th

  —J. K.

  For Dawn and Lily (my pencil and eraser), who inspire my every line and erase away those that aren’t perfect—Thank you for believing in me.

  —C. Y.

  Return to the Willows

  Being a respectful sequel to Mr. Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows, containing helpful commentary, explanatory footnotes, and translation from the English language into American.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Return to the Willows

  1. Our Story Begins

  2. The Wild Blue Yonder

  3. Down to Earth

  4. The May Fair

  5. A Life Forever Changed

  6. Swordplay

  7. Toad. And Fireworks.

  8. Toad the Genius

  9. The Small, Bedraggled Weasel

  10. Toad in His Element

  11. Discord and Mutiny

  12. Swimming Lessons

  13. The Wild Wood

  14. The End of Professor Toad

  15. Very Bad News

  16. Toad on the Road

  17. Shocking Rudeness

  18. The Old Gypsy

  19. The Rat in Flight

  20. Toad’s Transportation

  21. Humphrey’s Travails

  22. Plotting and Planning

  23. The Trojan Cake

  24. The Big Birthday Party

  25. The Big Birthday Battle

  26. Ingratitude and Treachery

  27. How It All Turned Out

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  Our Story Begins

  In which those of us who are familiar with the Rat and Mole hail them as old friends. And for those of you who aren’t, well, you should put this book down right away and ask your librarian for the first book so you won’t be entirely clueless. (Oh, all right. You can come along if you promise to keep up, but no moaning about being lost.)

  The Mole and Water Rat drifted along the River in a tiny blue-and-white rowboat. The current gurgled and chuckled, delighted with its comrades for the day. The sun smiled down upon our heroes and gladdened their hearts; the lightest of zephyrs ruffled their fur. There was not a hawk in the sky, and even the dark fringe of the Wild Wood glowering in the distance could not cast a pall upon the shining hour.

  The Rat pulled on the oars every now and then but mostly let the River do the work, for he was busy composing poems in his head, rhyming “dream” with “stream,” that sort of thing. The Mole had brought along a good book to read (for it is a firm and fast rule that one should never leave one’s burrow without a good book in hand), and was deeply immersed in the adventures of a young girl who’d fallen down a rabbit hole. The hole was unlike any the Mole had ever visited—and he had visited any number of them in his time, for he counted a great many rabbits among his friends—but he was enjoying it immensely, as he was very fond of all stories that took place underground. He leaned back upon a plump cushion and wiggled his toes in sheer happiness.

  From time to time, the Rat auditioned a new ditty by speaking it aloud, to see whether it lived and breathed in the open air, or withered and died as so many rhymes do when they are first introduced to the world. (It is a strange fact that many of those rhymes which ring true in the composer’s head will, when spoken aloud, limp and wheeze in the most pathetic manner, and are best put out of their misery right away.1)

  Really, sighed the Mole to himself, the day was perfect. Or at least it would be, if only the Rat would stop interrupting his reading.

  Honestly, thought the Rat, the day was ideal. Or at least it would be, if only the Mole would put down his book and pay proper attention.

  “Moly, listen here. Can you think of a word that rhymes with balloon? The only thing I can come up with is mushroom, and that doesn’t work at all. One should avoid fungus in poetry, as a rule.”

  With great reluctance, Mole tore himself away from an intriguing chapter about a frightfully odd tea party, in which two of the characters were trying to stuff a third into the teapot. The thought of a dormouse bobbing about in the tea struck the Mole as a shockingly shabby way to treat a guest, to say nothing of unhygienic.

  He said, “Why do you need a rhyme for balloon?”

  The Rat looked at him incredulously and said, “Haven’t you heard? Why, it’s the talk of the River. Toad’s grown bored with boats, and his motor-car craze is fading, so now he’s gone out and bought himself a—”

  “Yoo-hoo!” came a gleeful familiar voice. It sounded very much like their friend Toad, but he was nowhere to be seen. Toad’s voice was present, but Toad, in the flesh, was not.

  “What nonsense is he up to now?” said the Rat, frowning. “He really is a most provoking creature.”

  “Hulloo, hulloo! Up here, you two!” sniggered the invisible Toad. “I’m up here!”

  A passing cloud momentarily blotted out the sun. The two looked up to see that the cloud was not in fact a cloud, but rather a huge yellow balloon sailing overhead, a majestic airship, as shocking as another sun in the sky. The Mole gasped, and his heart skittered in his chest, for he’d never seen anything so splendid in all his life.

  Suspended in the wicker basket below the balloon, waving and hullooing at them, was the familiar podgy form of Toad.

  “As I was about to say,” said the Rat drily, “he’s bought himself a brand-new balloon, and I hear it cost the earth. Shall we place a bet on how long this phase lasts?”

  The Mole ignored him, fixated as he was on the enormous globe. He clasped his paws together and breathed, “Oh, my.”

  “Hoy, you two, what d’you think?” yelled Toad, his voice growing fainter as a current of wind spirited him away. “Ain’t she a beaut? I’ll take you fellows for a ride one day, if you like.”

  The Mole could barely make out these last few words. But they stuck in his brain and lodged in his heart.

  The Rat chattered on, making rude comments about Toad’s passing manias and how they never lasted and how he was sure to come to grief this time, and that he—Rat—only hoped that he—Toad—didn’t take some innocent victim with him when it happened, as it was bound to. For although Toad was in many respects a fine fellow, he possessed (let’s face it) a light and volatile character, and trailed catastrophe in his wake at every turn, and was not to be trusted with conveyances of any kind, and so forth and so on.

  The Mole, his book long forgotten in his lap, ignored him. Eyes agleam, mouth agape, he stared at the balloon until it shrank to a speck on the horizon.

  “Mole?” Ratty examined him with astonishment and not a little alarm, for the Mole’s expression was one the Rat had seen before, specifically on the visage of Toad when he’d first laid eyes on a motor-car, and been swept up in his craze for speed and the pull of the open road. “Moly?”

  “Hmm?” said the Mole.

  “Mole, old fellow, whatever’s come over you?”

  The Mole said, “Hmm? What was that?”

  “Now, look here,” said the Rat severely, “if you’re thinking of ballooning with Toad, you’ve got to put that idea right out of your head. He’s not competent to operate a tricycle, let alone a flying machine. Good heavens, man, you’d be taking your life in your hand
s!”

  The Mole’s expression changed, and his eyes regained their focus. “I s’pose you’re right, Ratty. You’re always right about that sort of thing. Still, it must be nice…” His voice trailed off for a moment, but then he rallied and said, “Never mind. Messing about in boats is more than enough for me.”

  A swift flitted by overhead, carving the sky into invisible loops with its acrobatics. It glanced at the boat and then, disbelieving its own eyes, swooped and circled back, landing lightly on the bow. The bird cocked its head and surveyed the tiny vessel’s passengers.

  “My word,” chirruped the Swift, “it is a mole after all. A Water Rat is to be expected, but a Water Mole? I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.”

  “Good morning, Swift,” said Mole. “Ratty has introduced me to the pleasures—nay, the joys! of the nautical life. He’s taught me how to row and swim, and I’m here to tell you that there is nothing, simply nothing, so grand as messing about in boats.”

  “That may be true,” retorted the Swift, “but it isn’t a natural state for a ground dweller such as yourself.”

  “Natural or not,” said Ratty stoutly, “my friend here is every bit at home on the River as I am. He’s quite an expert on the life aquatic.”

  The Swift ignored this and continued, “You don’t see fish burrowing in the ground, do you? Leastways, not any self-respecting fish with a lick of common sense. Ergo, moles should not swim, or float about in boats, for that matter.2 Since you, sir, are plainly a mole, your job is to grub about in the earth. You were born and bred for it, and that’s all there is to it. Why, next you’ll want to fly, and all of Nature will be set on its head, topsy-turvy. It ain’t natural, I tell you.”

  And with that, the Swift launched himself into the air and flew away before the Mole could think of a suitably crushing retort. (Mole, despite his many sterling qualities, was not always the most nimble-witted creature when it came to composing the withering riposte.)

  “What colossal cheek!” Rat said. “Don’t let that bird bother you, Moly. He’s just jealous.” Rat went on about it at length and even threw in some harrumphing noises until his friend felt better.

  Toad’s magic words, “I’ll take you fellows for a ride … for a ride…,” grew louder in the Mole’s head; his imagination swirled with visions of the dazzling yellow aircraft. Who could’ve imagined that such a machine existed? Even better, that the whole point of its existence was to make flight possible for earthbound beings, including modest tillers of the humble soil? As in, let us say, moles? As in, for example, one mole in particular? Why should those lucky creatures who’d been blessed with wings be the only ones to soar and swoop and glide and dip?

  He picked up his book and soon appeared to be engrossed in his reading, but if the Rat had been paying more attention, he would have noticed that his friend did not turn a single page throughout the rest of their excursion.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Wild Blue Yonder

  In which one of our heroes achieves his heart’s desire. And then wishes he hadn’t.

  Perhaps it was the stimulating effect of the flourishing season, or possibly the rankling remark made by the Swift about ground grubbers, but whatever the cause, the Mole was a changed animal. He found himself unable to concentrate on much of anything other than the brilliant balloon. What must it be like to glide on high with the birds and the clouds? In short, why should swifts (and toads) have all the fun?

  With this in mind, the Mole trotted to Toad Hall one bright afternoon and found the owner on the great velvety expanse of lawn with his balloon almost fully inflated. The Mole caught his breath at the magnificence of it.

  “Hullo, Moly,” Toad called out. “I’m just about to take off. Come along with me. There’s absolutely nothing like it! The fresh air! The grand views! When I think of all the time I squandered on trivial pursuits such as boating, I’m almost reduced to tears. Why would anyone choose to spend his time floating on the River when he could spend it sailing in the Air? And as for motoring? Pah!”

  “Well, I…” Mole found himself suddenly tongue-tied, now that his dearest wish was about to be realized.

  “Oh, do come along, Mole, it’s perfectly safe with an experienced balloonist like myself at the helm. Why, I’ve been doing it for days now. Absolutely nothing to it. Jump aboard, Mole, there’s a good chap.” He added, “Cook packed me a first-rate lunch. There’s plenty.”

  “All right,” said Mole shyly.

  “Good man! That’s the spirit! Just let me check the wind gauge, and we’ll be on our way in a tick.”

  Mole clambered into the basket, which creaked alarmingly, even more so when Toad joined him.

  Mole said nervously, “Are you sure it will hold us both?”

  “’Course it will. It’s the best model on offer.” Toad fiddled with the valves, and the coal gas flared up with a mighty whoosh.

  “Toad!” cried Mole, recoiling in horror. “It’s on fire!”

  “’Course it’s on fire. It’s supposed to be on fire. You burn the gas, and that makes the air hot, and that’s what goes into the balloon, and that’s what lifts it all up. At least, I think that’s how it works. Silly me, I never can keep it straight.”

  With no further preamble, the balloon, the basket, and its inhabitants sprang from the earth. The Mole gasped in terror and clutched the rim of the basket as the ground receded beneath them at a horrifying clip. His instincts screamed that he’d made a dreadful mistake, that it was all so terribly wrong. That the proper situation for a mole—the only situation for a mole—was to remain firmly affixed to the earth or, better yet, under the earth in his own familiar burrow. What had he been thinking? He sank to the bottom of the basket and cowered there, his stomach heaving.

  “Mole, old thing, whatever’s the matter?” said Toad. “You’re missing the view.”

  Mole moaned, his face hidden in his paws, “Take me home, Toad. Oh, please, take me home.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, we’ve only just started. We won’t be home for hours yet. Here, stand up and look at the Hall. There’s the orchard, and there’s the croquet lawn, and there’s the boathouse. Oh, and look, there’s Cook in the kitchen garden, waving her tea towel at us. Hullooo!” Toad waved vigorously, causing the basket to sway and the Mole to gulp. “Stand up and take a look, Mole. Hullooo!”

  Mole pleaded, “Oh, Toad, you’ve got to steer it back.”

  “Steer it, did you say? Don’t be absurd, there’s no steering it, old thing. No, no, not at all. That’s part of the charm, old fellow, part of the adventure. To sail wherever the currents take one. To surrender one’s course to the vagaries of the wind. Why,” Toad chuckled, “I s’pose that’s where the phrase ‘to throw caution to the wind’ comes from. I’ve never thought of that before. Have you ever considered that, Mole?”

  There was no answer.

  “Moly?”

  There was still no answer.

  “What are you doing down there,” inquired Toad, “all curled up like a hedgehog?”

  “I want to go home,” murmured the pitiful Mole. “I want my own little burrow, even if it is just a hole in the ground. I want to dig and tunnel and rummage about in the earth. The Swift was right. It’s what a mole does, Toad. It’s simply not natural for moles to fly.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” Toad protested. “By your reasoning, it’s not natural for toads to fly either, but look at me. Here I am. Free as the proverbial bird on the wing. I must say, you disappoint me, Mole. I never took you for such an old fuddy-duddy. Where’s your sense of adventure? I, Toad, crave the Life Adventurous. Oh, look, there’s the village and the church. And there’s a flock of sheep grazing on the commons. They look like balls of cotton from here. And, look, there’s the River.” Toad prattled on and pretended not to notice Mole bundled in his misery.

  “I say,” exclaimed Toad. “I wonder if that’s the meadow where your burrow is. It’s rather hard to tell from here.”

  Mole uncurled hims
elf at these tantalizing words.

  Toad went on. “Shame that I can’t tell for certain. Ah, well. It’s too bad you’re missing this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Moly.”

  The Mole cautiously raised his head.

  Toad continued, “It’s not every day that one gets to see one’s home from such a lofty perspective. Ah, well.”

  Mole spoke in a small voice. “D’you really think it might be my meadow?”

  “Difficult to say. I imagine that only someone familiar with the area could tell. I can take us down a bit lower, for although you can’t, technically speaking, steer the aircraft, you can make it go up or down easily enough.”

  The Mole squeezed his eyes shut, gripped the side of the basket, and slowly pulled himself to a standing position, trying hard not to jiggle the aircraft. Right, Moly, he told himself sternly, you can do this. He willed himself to look.

  Below him, as far as the eye could see, lay the overwhelming panorama of the wide world: meadows of barley neatly divided by the darker lines of hedges and roads, an undulating checkerboard of emerald green and lime green and pale gold. Dotted across the pastoral landscape were charming hamlets, including their own familiar village of Toadsworth, punctuated by the steeples of picturesque churches. The Mole was entranced. He exclaimed, “Oh, my!” and would have clapped his paws together in excitement, except that doing so would have meant releasing his hold on the basket.

  He contemplated the countryside in awe. In the distance lay the Wild Wood, lowering and sullen, even in full daylight. And there flowed the River, snaking its way through the scenery, shining like a mirror at the turns where it caught the sun. Mole was agog, which gratified his host no end.

  “Isn’t it grand?” proclaimed Toad. “I’m not the sort to say I told you so, but I did tell you so.3 There’s absolutely nothing like it. Here, let’s drop down and see if it’s your meadow.” He pulled on the release valve.

  They sank slowly until Mole could see that the countryside was imprinted with a crazed web of dozens of narrow crisscrossing trails, along which many miniature gray shapes darted. Mole squinted, and the darting gray shapes turned into rabbits.