mazed and joyous bark
as he bounded up through the osiers on to the path. Then the Mole,
with a strong pull on one oar, swung the boat round and let the full
stream bear them down again whither it would, their quest now happily
ended.

"I feel strangely tired, Rat," said the Mole, leaning wearily over his
oars, as the boat drifted. "It's being up all night, you'll say,
perhaps; but that's nothing. We do as much half the nights of the
week, at this time of the year. No; I feel as if I had been through
something very exciting and rather terrible, and it was just over;
and yet nothing particular has happened."

"Or something very surprising and splendid and beautiful," murmured
the Rat, leaning back and closing his eyes. "I feel just as you do,
Mole; simply dead tired, though not body-tired. It's lucky we've got
the stream with us, to take us home. Isn't it jolly to feel the sun
again, soaking into one's bones! And hark to the wind playing in the
reeds!"

"It's like music--far-away music," said the Mole, nodding drowsily.

"So I was thinking," murmured the Rat, dreamful and languid.
"Dance-music--the lilting sort that runs on without a stop--but with
words in it, too--it passes into words and out of them again--I catch
them at intervals--then it is dance-music once more, and then nothing
but the reeds' soft thin whispering."

"You hear better than I," said the Mole sadly. "I cannot catch the
words."

"Let me try and give you them," said the Rat softly, his eyes still
closed. "Now it is turning into words again--faint but clear--_Lest
the awe should dwell--And turn your frolic to fret--You shall look on
my power at the helping hour--But then you shall forget!_ Now the
reeds take it up--_forget, forget_, they sigh, and it dies away in a
rustle and a whisper. Then the voice returns--

"_Lest limbs be reddened and rent--I spring the trap that is set--As I
loose the snare you may glimpse me there--For surely you shall
forget!_ Row nearer, Mole, nearer to the reeds! It is hard to catch,
and grows each minute fainter.

"_Helper and healer, I cheer--Small waifs in the woodland wet--Strays
I find in it, wounds I bind in it--Bidding them all forget!_ Nearer,
Mole, nearer! No, it is no good; the song has died away into
reed-talk."

"But what do the words mean?" asked the wondering Mole.

"That I do not know," said the Rat simply. "I passed them on to you as
they reached me. Ah! now they return again, and this time full