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First published in Great Britain in 1908 by Methuen & Co Ltd
Reissued in 2000 by Egmont Books
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
This edition published 2021 by Egmont Books
Text copyright © The University Chest, Oxford, under the Beme Convention
Line illustrations copyright © The Shepard Trust
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted
Ebook ISBN 978 0 7555 0079 6
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
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5 V Dulce Domum
6 VI Mr Toad
7 VII The Piper at the Gates of Dawn
8 VIII Toad’s Adventures
9 IX Wayfarers All
10 X The Further Adventures of Toad
11 XI ‘Like Summer Tempests Came His Tears’
12 XII The Return of Ulysses
13 Back series promotional page
14 About the Author
Contents
V Dulce Domum
VI Mr Toad
VII The Piper at the Gates of Dawn
VIII Toad’s Adventures
IX Wayfarers All
X The Further Adventures of Toad
XI ‘Like Summer Tempests Came His Tears’
XII The Return of Ulysses
About the Author
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. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer to the sun and air. So1he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged, and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, ‘Up we go! Up we go!’ till at last, pop! his snout came out into the sunlight, and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow.
‘This is fine!’ he said to himself. ‘This is better than whitewashing!’ The sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a shout. Jumping off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living and the delight of spring without its cleaning, he pursued his way across the meadow till he reached the hedge on the further side.
