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The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, |
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Spring-cleaning his little home. |
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First with brooms, then with dusters; |
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Then on ladders and steps and chairs, |
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With a brush and a pail of whitewash; |
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Till he had dust in his throats and eyes, |
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And splashes of whitewash all over his black fur. |
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Spring was moving in the air above |
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And in the earth below and around him, |
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Penetrating even his small dark and lowly little house |
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With its spirit of divine discontent and longing. |
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It was small wonder, then, |
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That he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor |
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And said, "Bother!" |
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Something up above was calling him. |
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So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged |
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and then scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, |
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Working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, |
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"Up we go! Up we go!" |
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Until at last, pop. |
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His snout came out into the sunlight |
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And he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow. |
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"This is fine," he said to himself. |
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And jumping off all his four legs at once |
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In the joy of living and the delight of spring, |
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He pursued his way across the meadow |
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Till he reached the hedge on the further side. |
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Hither and thither through the meadows he rambled busily, |
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Finding everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves thrusting |
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everything happy, and progressive, and occupied. |
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And instead of having an uneasy conscience pricking him, |
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He somehow could only feel how jolly it was to be |
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The only idle dog among all these busy citizens. |
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He thought his happiness was complete when, |
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As he meandered aimlessly along, |
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Suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed river. |
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Never in his life had he seen a river before |
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This sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and chuckling, |
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Gripping this with a gurgle and leaving them with a laugh, |
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To fling itself on fresh playmates that shook themselves free, |
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And were caught and held again. |
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All was a-shake and a-shiver |
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Flints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter and bubble. |
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The mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. |
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By the side of the river he trotted as on trots, |
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when very small, by the side of a man |
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who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; |
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And when tired at last, he sat on the bank, |
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While the river chattered on to him, |
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A babbling procession of the best stories in the world, |
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Sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea. |
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The mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness, |
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Spread his chest with a sigh of full contentment, |
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And leaned back blissfully. |
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"What a day I'm having," he said. |
