he woods, or
something."

"Well, I _think_ not _to-day_, thank you," replied the field-mouse
hurriedly. "Perhaps some _other_ day--when we've more _time_--"

The Rat, with a snort of contempt, swung round to go, tripped over a
hat-box, and fell, with undignified remarks.

"If people would be more careful," said a field-mouse rather stiffly,
"and look where they're going, people wouldn't hurt themselves--and
forget themselves. Mind that hold-all, Rat! You'd better sit down
somewhere. In an hour or two we may be more free to attend to you."

"You won't be 'free' as you call it, much this side of Christmas, I
can see that," retorted the Rat grumpily, as he picked his way out of
the field.

He returned somewhat despondently to his river again--his faithful,
steady-going old river, which never packed up, flitted, or went into
winter quarters.

In the osiers which fringed the bank he spied a swallow sitting.
Presently it was joined by another, and then by a third; and the
birds, fidgeting restlessly on their bough, talked together earnestly
and low.

"What, _already_," said the Rat, strolling up to them. "What's the
hurry? I call it simply ridiculous."

"O, we're not off yet, if that's what you mean," replied the first
swallow. "We're only making plans and arranging things. Talking it
over, you know--what route we're taking this year, and where we'll
stop, and so on. That's half the fun!"

"Fun?" said the Rat; "now that's just what I don't understand. If
you've _got_ to leave this pleasant place, and your friends who will
miss you, and your snug homes that you've just settled into, why, when
the hour strikes I've no doubt you'll go bravely, and face all the
trouble and discomfort and change and newness, and make believe that
you're not very unhappy. But to want to talk about it, or even think
about it, till you really need--"

"No, you don't understand, naturally," said the second swallow.
"First, we feel it stirring within us, a sweet unrest; then back come
the recollections one by one, like homing pigeons. They flutter
through our dreams at night, they fly with us in our wheelings and
circlings by day. We hunger to inquire of each other, to compare notes
and assure ourselves that it was all really true, as one by one the
scents and sounds and names of long-forgotten places come gradually
back and beckon to us."

"Couldn't you stop on for just this year?" suggested the Water Rat,
wistfully. "We'll all do our