THE Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said, “Bother!” and “O blow!” and also “Hang spring-cleaning!” and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat.
The Wind in the Willows
When we lived next-door to some fishermen…
…I was watching these neighbors fish for trout at Indian Pond, small and round and snugly hidden in the granite hills. The protective circle rises above a dimple full of water. Maybe a kettle-hole, sunk by glacial ice. Miles of mountains, the woodland roundabout—flatlanders can have scant idea Indian Pond is here.