The Willows in Winter

I

Into the Blizzard

The Mole sat toasting his toes in front of the fire. The winter wind
howled safely outside, sending occasional flurries of soot down his chimney He
was thinking that things were nearly perfect, but not quite.

“I must not be uncharitable,” he said to himself,
though a slight and uncharacteristic frown showed he was finding it difficult
not to be. “I have my health, I have my home and I — I must
not
be
unfriendly.”

He darted a glance across the hearth towards
the smaller and less comfortable chair that was ranged there, looked briefly at
the cause of his ill-temper, and looked away again.

“No, I must be patient. My heart must be compassionate.
I must put up with it. I must — O bother!”

The wind blew suddenly more violently all round
the outside of his house, which was snug among the roots of a fallen old oak
tree, and doors rattled, and an ember of the beech log that was burning
brightly on his fire cracked and shot onto his rug and smouldered there.

“Don’t worry!” said the unwelcome guest who sat
in the chair opposite. “I’ll move it!”

“I can do it myself, thank you very much,”
retorted the Mole in a
grumbly
way, quite unlike his
normal good—natured self. “O — O drat!”

He shook his paw in momentary pain at the heat
as he sought to pick up the ember and put it back where it belonged.

“Would you like a —”No I wouldn’t!” declared
the Mole vehemently “I would like — I would like — I —”

But he could not bring himself to say what he
would like, which was to be left alone and snug in his cosy home, free to
potter through the winter evening, free to make himself a warming drink — or
not, as the case might be — but certainly free
not
to have to think
about someone else.

Free not
just
for this evening, but for
every evening to come!

O, how distant those days seemed when he had
been alone in his home, and happy! How far off those wonderful days! O yes,
winter had come into his life now all right, but it had nothing to do with the
snow and sleet that drove against his front door, and the draughts that worried
at his paws when he went the short distance between the warm fireside of his
parlour and his soft bed.
Winter?
Such matters as mere
cold and ice, violent wind and driving snow were as nothing compared to the
bitter loss of his privacy since
he
had turned up.

Mole scowled at the floor, and at the little
burn mark the ember had made in the rug, and did his best yet again to tell
himself that really he
was
an uncharitable Mole, and deserved none of
the many good things life had brought him, if he could not show a little
tolerance for a few more —”Months,” groaned the Mole. “The longest months of
the year, that’s how long he’s going to be here. How can I turn him out in this
weather? And yet there’s absolutely nothing wrong with him at all,
nothing.
It’s
me that’s to blame. I should have sent him packing while I still could.”

“Are you all right, Uncle?” asked his most
unwelcome guest. “You look gloomy to me.

“Well, I’m not,” said the Mole ungratefully.

“Well, you
look
it.”

There was a sudden flurry of sleety snow at the
door, and a chill blast of air across the room. The fallen oak tree which was
the support and strength of Mole’s home shook and stressed and both the Mole
and his guest looked up at the ceiling in alarm, and at the sideboard on which
plates and cups rattled and shook.

“Haven’t you got something better to do than
talk?”
grumbled poor Mole.

“Nothing better than talking, especially on a
night like this,” said his Nephew, leaning forward expectantly.

Then, since Mole was not forthcoming, and
thinking to encourage him to talk, the youngster continued after a pause, “Mind
you, a winter night like tonight, when most creatures are too weak and
frightened to go out, wouldn’t worry you! Nothing scares you, I know that. Why,
you could walk miles across the Wild Wood itself in the dark and blizzard winds
and still save a creature who was in peril, if you had to!”

“How many times do I have to tell you, I am not
the Mole you think I am!” snapped Mole in exasperation. “The last thing I or
any sensible creature would do is to go wandering off into the Wild Wood
tonight. I really am
not
the brave bold mole you seem to have heard
about. I am just an ordinary mole, and it makes me very cross when you keep
suggesting that I am anything other than —”

“But Uncle, I
know
you are not an
ordinary mole. Water Rat told me you were the bravest cleverest boldest Mole he
had ever met in his life. Mr Toad declared that if there was one living
creature he would want at his side in a time of crisis it was you. And even Mr
Badger,
and everyone knows how wise he is, said, and I
quote, ‘There’s only one Mole, and no one is braver and bolder and better than
he!’ So it’s no good being modest, Uncle!”

The Mole, who had the good grace to feel just a
little flattered, though in his heart he felt that all these compliments were
undeserved, wiggled his toes at the flames and thought that perhaps, after all,
he ought to try to make the best of things. “Well, I suppose if you have
nothing else to do, you could make me a nice hot sloe and blackberry drink,” he
muttered.

No sooner was it said than his young Nephew was
up and at it with that busy, clumsy, exasperatingly energetic way he had,
clattering about in the kitchen, rattling at the hob, and, worst of all, humming
happily to himself.

The Mole frowned again, scowled and then,
finally, smiled.

He stared at the flames and felt his nose all
cosy warm. He rested his paws on the arms of his comfortable chair.

Brave? Not he!

Bold? No, not really!

Better? No, no, not so.

“But as for Ratty’ he said over his shoulder,
“now there
is
a brave animal!”

“What did you say, Uncle?”

“I said Ratty is a brave animal,” replied the
Mole, half turning to look behind him.

“And Mr Badger too?”

“Yes, certainly Badger’s brave, as well as wise.
That’s quite certain.”

“And Mr Toad!
He’s brave!”

Mole laughed.

“Toad brave?
That’s not a word I’d use about old
Toad. Bold certainly, foolish definitely, vain absolutely, but never brave.”

“But you like him, don’t you?” said his Nephew
softly, placing the warm winter drink within comfortable reach, together with
a slice of warmed bread and butter pudding, dripping with melted butter.

“I really shouldn’t,” said the Mole, taking it
anyway, sniffing at it appreciatively, sighing, and then eating a mouthful.

“No, liking Toad doesn’t come into it at all.
Toad
is
,
that’s the thing about Toad.
Just as the trees are, and the river, and summer; and the winter.
Toad may be the most exasperating creature who ever lived, or ever will live —
even more exasperating than you, if I may say so —but at the end of the day,
when all is said and done, sitting here in the safety of my home, with the fire
burning bright and only memories to disturb our peace and quiet, and with the
prospect of a good and deep night’s sleep before us — after all of that, I must
say that without Toad there would be nothing much to live for at all.”

Mole took a sip of his drink, and another bite
of his pudding, and stared ruminatively at the fire.

His Nephew studied him uncertainly He so wanted
Mole to talk and tell him of those days when he and Water Rat and Toad and
Badger had had adventures along the river and in the Wild Wood. Indeed, it was
for this that he had first made the long journey from the Wide World to find
his famous uncle, and stay with him for a while.

The Mole had experienced mixed emotions that
day in autumn when the young mole had come knocking at his door and told him
who he was, and how his father, the Mole’s wastrel and ne’er-do-well brother,
had passed on, leaving his son with nothing, and nobody to care for him. How
far the youngster had travelled, and what dangers he had survived, Mole was
never able to find out, for they were things his Nephew did not talk about. But
nothing had warmed his good heart more than to see the look of relief on the
youngster’s face when he had asked him in, fed him, listened to his brief and
sorry tale, and said those fatal words, “Well then, since you’re family, you
can stay here
as long as you want.”

If only he had said “Till next Friday morning”
or something like it. For “as long as you want” soon feels like a life sentence
to a bachelor like Mole, unused to sharing his home with another for more than
an evening at a time. Sure enough, the Mole had soon tired of his Nephew, and
rapidly found that his constant good cheer and enthusiasm to see and do far too
many things were vexing in the extreme.

So, too good, too weak perhaps, to tell him to
leave, the Mole had sent him off to stay with the Water Rat for a time, and
learn what he could of the river.

“He will not want to come back to me after he’s
seen the excitements of the river,” said the Mole.

But he
had
come back.

“I’ll send him to Toad. All that comfort and
style will soon make him forget my humble home!”

But he didn’t last a week at Toad Hall before
he was back once more.

“O dear! O dear!” Mole confided in the Rat as autumn deepened and winter
set in. “I know I ought to tell him there’s not room enough for two of us, but
you see, Ratty, I have a sneaking admiration for him: the way he made his way
here from the Wide World, well! And if you had known my brother, who was as
weak and
hopeless
a case as could be, it doesn’t seem
possible for him to have produced such a resourceful son. But he has, and now,
now —”Now he’s ensconced with you, my dear chap, and you don’t like it,” said
the Rat sympathetically “Nor would I!”