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  “Is your tummy paining you? You’ve got that look you get when you’ve been a greedy beggar and eaten too much.”

  “It’s just … I say, old chap, are you actually going to wear that waistcoat?”

  The Mole looked down at his new apparel. “What, this?” he said, an undertone of hurt creeping into his voice. “Is it too loud, do you think?”

  The Rat, a kind and perspicacious animal, heard the dismay in his friend’s voice and hurried to put things right. “No, no, old man, it’s perfectly fine. It’s new, isn’t it? And such a bright, cheerful color. What d’you call it?”

  “The tailor called it Canary Mélange,” said Mole, doubtfully.8

  “Well, well,” said Rat. “Canary Mélange. So very … natty. So very … festive.”

  “The tailor did say it’s the latest thing,” said Mole, gathering his courage.

  “Ah. Well. The very latest thing. Sets off your coloring so nicely. Now, come along, old thing. Quick march,” ordered Ratty. “We don’t want to miss out on any of the festivities.”

  They set off, the Mole silently berating himself. What a blind mole he was! Why had he allowed the tailor to talk him into Canary Mélange, when a part of him—the sensible part—had known better all along? Why hadn’t he stuck to his usual choice, a sedate gray-and-white check? He fretted like this for a while, but the day was too deliriously fine for him to remain upset for long, and he soon got over himself.

  They strolled through the lush water meadow swarming with bejeweled dragonflies; they passed adjoining fields of thrusting green barley and soon came to a well-worn path that ran along the hedgerows. All the small society of the undergrowth—everything that scurried or hopped or fluttered—streamed along the road. Not even the shadow of the Wild Wood looming in the distance could put a crimp in the day, for summer had announced its arrival.

  During those moments when the fickle wind turned their way, they could faintly hear the primitive skirling strains of the hurdy-gurdy playing tantalizing snatches of the old songs; songs handed down from animal to animal over untold generations; songs giving thanks for the gifts of a snug burrow, a full larder, a healthy litter, and the return of another summer. They rounded a bend in the path, and there, in the middle of the next meadow, was the Fair in all its glory.

  There was a coconut shy, a lucky dip, and a swingboat. There was a squirrel on stilts and a fortune-teller laying out cards, although on closer inspection, it proved to be Mrs. Otter got up in a purple turban and paisley shawl. There were booths with all manner of enticing fripperies and trinkets for the youngsters (for there isn’t a young animal alive who can resist the allure of shiny things). There was sponge cake, shortbread, and jam roly-poly. There were ices of many flavors, and lemonade and barley water and ginger beer, and that most sublime of sticky treats, pink spun sugar. There were delectables aplenty, enough to sicken every small animal there of injudicious appetite.9 In the midst of the hubbub stood the Maypole, a tall, stripped birch trunk dangling long strands of multicolored ribbons, waiting for the dancers to weave their patterns around it.

  The whine of the hurdy-gurdy was soon joined by the high sweet tootling of a recorder and the jaunty thumping of a tambourine—chack-a-chack! A company of red squirrels lined up and began the Morris dance, their bright bells all a-jingle and their bold sashes fluttering as they jumped in steps many hundreds of summers old.10 A gaggle of rabbits muttered behind their paws, just loud enough to be overheard—“pretty poor jumping, if you ask me,” “why didn’t they ask us?” “we are the leaping specialists, after all,” et cetera—the way chaps who think they’ve been wrongfully passed over will insist on generally acting like damp squibs and boring the innocent bystander with their grievances.

  “Look, Ratty,” remarked the Mole, “there’s old Badger. What a surprise him being here, seeing as he hates going out in Society.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Moly, this isn’t Society. Society is all about sitting in a stuffy parlor with dull company, putting on ridiculous airs and droning on about nothing very much, and minding your manners, and balancing your teacup on your knees, and worrying about what others will think of a fellow if he should happen to take the last slice of cake. It’s simply the most tedious bosh imaginable. But the Fair, the Fair is quite a different matter! Why, just look around you. It’s all about celebrating life; it’s about the ripening season, the rising sap. Quite a different matter altogether.”

  A family of field mice played crack-the-whip with the youngest mouse at the end, who came loose and rolled to the feet of the Badger. The mouse squeaked in alarm, but Badger merely lifted him by the scruff, swatted the dust from him, and set him on his feet, saying kindly in his common way, “There you are, little fellow. All right?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Badger, sir,” the mouse quaked. Badger drew tup-pence from his pocket and put it in the youngster’s paw.

  “Off you go. And the rest of you mice, you ought to take better care of this little ’un here.”

  “Yes, Mr. Badger, sir. We will, Mr. Badger, sir,” stammered the others, and then, terrified to a mouse, pattered away from the terrible gray Badger as fast as their feet would carry them.

  “Hullo, you two,” said Badger, espying his friends. “I thought I’d find you here.”

  “We’re all here,” replied the Rat. “Even the weasels and stoats have put in an appearance.” A clutch of nervous weasels and stoats, aware that they were there on sufferance, and careful of their manners, doffed their caps and bowed low to Mole, Badger, and the Rat—the three great warriors—who, although they did not condescend to speak to their former adversaries, nodded to them in a nice display of noblesse oblige.11

  “But we’re not all here,” said Mole. “Where’s Toad?”

  “Probably waiting to make a grand entrance, if I know Toad,” grumped Badger. “And I do know Toad. Rather better than I’d like.”

  Sure enough, the words were barely out of Badger’s mouth when Toad’s balloon hove into view and drew an appreciative murmur from the crowd. The captain leaned over the rim of the basket, perhaps a bit too far, and cried out, “Stand back! I’m going to drop anchor!”

  This announcement caused a stampede of animals to all points of the compass, quickly producing a clearing of sufficient size to allow for a safe landing.

  “Oh, Toad,” cried Mole in alarm, “look out! You’re going to f—”

  As if on cue, Toad, the most featherbrained, the most headstrong, the most addlepated of animals, pitched forward over the side and plunged to the ground, landing with an impressively loud, squashy, thump.

  “Toad!” cried his friends, appalled, certain that the animal lying motionless on the ground before them (the creature formerly known as Mr. Toad) had shuffled off his mortal coil and was no more. To their great relief, a faint moan issued from the prone form.12

  “Uuurk,” groaned Toad.

  “He’s alive!” cried the Rat.

  “Toad lives!” cried the Mole.

  “You stupid bloody Toad!” swore the Badger. The Rat and Mole were too worried about their injured friend to remonstrate with Badger over his shockingly bad language. After all, his provocation was beyond measure.

  “Give him air!” cried the Rat to the morbid throng pressing closer for a better look. “He needs air.”

  Badger declared, “What he needs is some common sense knocked into him. P’raps this has done the trick. And look, there goes the balloon. Probably for the best.”

  “Where am I?” said Toad, slowly sitting up and gathering his wits. “What’s happened?”

  Said Rat, “Oh, you nincompoop, you fell out of your aircraft and gave us such a fright.”

  “I did?” giggled Toad. “Why, so I did.” To his friends’ relief, he sounded much like his old self. (As you’re probably aware, toads are generally resilient creatures and tend to bounce back rather well.) He sat up in time to watch his escaping balloon drift away.

  Mole braced himself for a scene of grief and dism
ay, but there was none. “Toad,” he said, “what shall we do about your balloon?”

  “I s’pose I’ll just have to buy a new one,” declared Toad. “Bit of a bother, but I can afford it. Should I go with the red this time?”

  This frivolous attitude was too much for the Rat. He seized Toad by the collar and shouted, “You heedless beast! What if it comes down and hurts someone? They could get the constable on you, and the bailiffs, and I doubt the judge has forgotten your last brush with the law for stealing a motor-car.”

  Toad blanched at the memory of his stint in England’s dankest, darkest dungeon, brief though it had been. “Oh, Ratty, what’ll I do?” He thought for a moment and brightened. “I know, I’ll offer a reward for its return. That’ll take care of it.” He turned to the dispersing crowd and cried, “A pound to whoever brings my balloon back to Toad Hall.”13

  A whole pound! Toad may as well have uttered words of magic, judging by the effect they had on the crowd. A good dozen of the bystanders hied off in the direction of the disappearing balloon, a sleek hare coursing well out in front, a collection of hedgehogs trundling along mid-pack, and one stolid, deliberate tortoise bringing up the rear.

  The friends escorted Toad to the shade of an oak tree and gave him a refreshing glass of ginger beer. After a short rest, he was able to get up and walk about (although his limp was, perhaps, somewhat exaggerated), garnering many solicitous inquiries regarding his physical state. None of this attention did the conceited animal any good at all, being a naturally uppish and inflated sort. The exasperated Badger finally grunted a few short, sharp, well-chosen words, which caused Toad to rapidly deflate, much in the manner of a punctured balloon himself.

  They spent a lazy hour rambling about, nibbling on sweetmeats and various dainties, and then the music signaled that it was time for the Maypole dance. Poor Otter, whose thankless job it was to marshal the mob of dancers into some semblance of order, was too busy to speak to his friends and could only wave in their direction in between toots on his whistle and shouts of “You mice, stop that immediately!” and “Voles! Over here, on the double!” The dancers shuffled and chattered and insisted on standing in the wrong place as the members of an excitable throng of animals inevitably do, especially at a fair, and it took Otter a good five minutes to sort them out. Finally, the band struck up the old tune, and off they went, around and around, circling like the wide swirl of water below the weir.

  Mole clapped his paws in time, Toad hummed along, and even Badger tapped his foot. But Ratty did none of these things. Instead, he goggled at the dancers, and stared and twitched and shivered as if with ague. His springy whiskers quivered. His fur stood on end. He looked like a rat struck by lightning.

  “Ratty,” said Mole, “whatever’s the matter?”

  The Rat gurgled something incomprehensible through a mouthful of licorice allsorts. Not the very nicest sight in the world. He pointed a trembling paw in the direction of the Maypole.

  “Ratty, speak to me! Badger, help! He’s having a fit of some kind.” The Mole shook his friend roughly, but the Rat merely flopped about, loose-limbed as a marionette. The Mole clapped his paws in the Rat’s face, but he did not blink. The Badger looked at him keenly and thought hard for a moment, then stood behind the transfixed friend and pointed his long, sharp nose in the same direction as the Rat’s, examining the world from the hypnotized animal’s perspective.

  “Badger, what on earth are you doing?” said Mole. “Have you both gone mad?”

  Badger surveyed the scene and determined that the Water Rat was staring entranced at one of the dancers. She was a stranger from the Meadow Beyond, a pretty, little water rat with twinkling brown eyes, lustrous fur, neat ears, and a delicate muzzle. She caught sight of the Rat, and looked away.

  “Oh, dear,” sighed Badger. “It’s no use, Mole—he’s a goner. It’s got him in its grip, I’m afraid, and there’s only one cure for it.”

  “Got him?” cried Mole in alarm. “Got him? What’s got him?”

  The Badger replied gravely, “It is called Love.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Life Forever Changed

  In which Ratty goes a-courting. (For those of you who don’t like the mushy bits, cover your eyes until we get to chapter 6.)

  The Fair had been over for three days. Toad was suffering no ill effects from his fall, but the Water Rat was a different creature altogether. He had laid eyes on the beauteous Matilda and gone all soggy with love. He went into a decline, took to his bed, and kept Mole scurrying to and fro, cutting the crusts off his toast and fetching him nourishing broths and restorative tonics. Despite these tender ministrations, the Rat lay flushed and feverish under his quilt, and stared at nothing but the ceiling, now and then stirring himself from his dreadful malaise to sigh deep, shuddering sighs.

  On the fourth day, the Rat turned his sunken eyes on his worried nurse and whispered, “Good old Moly. Staunch fellow. What a good friend you have been to me. If … if anything should happen to me … I want you to have my boat.”

  On hearing this, the Mole grew exceedingly alarmed and sent straightaway for Badger, who arrived a half hour later in very bad spirits, having been awakened from his afternoon lie-down.

  “What’s all this rot about?” Badger bellowed as he came through the door. “Rat, stir your stumps!14 Out of bed this instant! You’re being ridiculous with this carrying on. Look at poor Mole. Worn to a frazzle, and it’s all your fault.”

  “But, Badger,” moaned Rat piteously, “I’m not well.”

  “Of course you’re not well,” the Badger fumed. “You’re lovesick, and there’s nothing for it but to put on your best bib and tucker, march on down to the Meadow Beyond, and tell Matilda how you feel.”15

  “T-t-tell her?” stammered the Rat, paling. “You mean, actually speak to her? Oh, I say, that’s … that’s … Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Ratty,” said Badger severely, “are you a man or a mouse?”16

  The Rat mulled this over. “Well, actually, as you know—” But the irate Badger cut him off.

  “Oh, bother! Mole, give me a hand.” Together they threw back the covers and pounced on the Rat, who, having made a remarkably sudden recovery, grabbed the bedpost and kicked and thrashed mightily against his attendants. They managed to pry him loose, brush his teeth (with great gobs of foam flying about as if from a rabid animal), and dress him in his good suit, all to the accompaniment of the most unspeakable abuse hurled at them by their struggling patient. Finally, panting, they shoved the Rat out the front door and locked it behind him.

  They could hear faint shouts. “I’m an invalid, you brutes! You can’t do this to me!”

  “Goodness,” wheezed Mole, dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief. “I never dreamed Ratty had such a strong grip. I suppose it comes from all that rowing. Cup of tea, Badger?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Mole busied himself with the tea tray and pretended not to hear the muffled thuds of an irate creature kicking at the stout oak door. After a good five minutes, the kicks tapered off, and, thankfully, stopped.

  “Should we have been so harsh on him?” said Mole.

  “Pah!” said Badger. “I’ve seen it all before. Happens to the best of animals. D’you reckon there’s any shortbread left in that tin?”

  * * *

  The Water Rat, barred from his own threshold and with nothing better to occupy his time, fumed his way through the meadow. He kicked at blameless clods of dirt and stewed in a thick miasma of ill will. That his oldest and dearest friends would treat him so shabbily. Ejecting him from his very own home. From his very own bed. The stupefying nerve! It was a gross outrage. It was … it was such a radiant day that the Rat, who was at heart a most congenial fellow, soon found his bad humor evaporating. He plucked a straw and chewed on it as he meandered, for nothing so focuses the mind on the matter at hand as chewing on a straw. And as the slender golden stem worked its magic, the Rat suddenly realized that
his friends were right. A powerful, unreasoning force had taken over his brain, his soul, his very being. He was trapped, snared by that oldest of emotions: Love.

  There was only one salve, one cure, for a rat caught in such a trap: to seek out the lady Matilda and confess his condition. He would compose a poem in her honor. He would present her with this token of affection, and hope that she would smile with favor upon his words. The Rat’s heart spilled over with fervent emotion for his beloved. When had the world seen such a comely creature? Such glossy fur! Such winsome grace! Had she not been created for him, and he for her? One for the other, just so? It would take all his powers of creativity to do her justice. From his pocket he pulled forth a scrap of paper and a stub of pencil. (Each of his jackets held the same equipment for just such versifying emergencies, for one never knows when the next gust of inspiration will knock one sideways.)

  “Let’s see,” he muttered to himself. “There was a young rat named Matilda. Oh, honestly, Ratty, is that all you can come up with? No, no, the limerick is such a questionable poem, dicey at best.17 Let’s try a sonnet. Hmm. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? That’s an awfully good line, but I think it’s been done before. Try something else. Let’s see, what rhymes with whiskers?” He cudgeled his brain for a good five minutes before reluctantly admitting, “Oh, hang. Nothing, really.”

  The Rat’s brain was so preoccupied with perfecting his rhyme that he quite forgot his surroundings and reached the Meadow Beyond before he knew it. He was still fretting over a couplet—

  Ba-dum ba-dum, da-dee da-deeeee …

  And something something something—

  when he padded around the bend in the River and arrived at Matilda’s burrow. The Rat abruptly came to his senses and gulped. It wasn’t too late to turn around and scuttle back to the comforts of his own snug bachelor quarters. But then he’d have to face the wrath of Mole and Badger who, for all their fine qualities and steadfast friendship, could be most severe when crossed.