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. So he 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.

'Hold up!' said an elderly rabbit at the gap. 'Sixpence for the

privilege of passing by the private road!' He was bowled over in an

instant by the impatient and contemptuous Mole, who trotted along the

side of the hedge chaffing the other rabbits as they peeped hurriedly

from their holes to see what the row was about. 'Onion-sauce!

Onion-sauce!' he remarked jeeringly, and was gone before they could

think of a thoroughly satisfactory reply. Then they all started

grumbling at each other. 'How STUPID you are! Why didn't you tell

him----' 'Well, why didn't YOU say----' 'You might have reminded him

----' and so on, in the usual way; but, of course, it was then much too

late, as is always the case.

It all seemed too good to be true. Hither and thither through the

meadows he rambled busily, along the hedgerows, across the copses,

finding everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves thrusting--

everything happy, and progressive, and occupied. And instead of

having an uneasy conscience pricking him and whispering 'whitewash!'

he somehow could only feel how jolly it was to be the only idle dog

among all these busy citizens. After all, the best part of a holiday

is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other

fellows busy working.