Moominvalley in November by Tove Jansson

what's that?'
    'It's what one shows when one is angry,' explained Fillyjonk.
    'Aha,' said Grandpa-Grumble, 'then I understand the whole thing. Has anyone else written anything or are we going to start the programme soon?' He started to feel uneasy about the Ancestor. Perhaps he, too, was tired and stiff, perhaps he hadn't managed the stairs. Perhaps he felt insulted, or perhaps he had fallen asleep. Anyway, something must be wrong, Grandpa-Grumble thought, somewhat vexed. They're always impossible when they pass a hundred. Rude, too...
    'Mymble!' the Hemulen announced loudly. 'Allow me to present Mymble!'
    Mymble walked to the middle of the floor, looking very shy and self-conscious. Her hair reached to her knees, and it was obvious that the hair-washing had been a success. She nodded briefly to Snufkin and he started to play. He played very softly. Mymble raised her arms and circled with short, hesitant steps. Shoo, shoo, tiddledidoo, said the mouth-organ; imperceptibly the music moved into a tune, became more and more lively and Mymble quickened her steps, the kitchen was full of music and movement and her long red hair looked like flying sunshine. It was all so

    beautiful and jolly! No one heard the Creature, huge and heavy, creeping round and round the house without knowing what it wanted. The guests beat time with their feet and sang tiddledidi, tiddledidoo, Mymble kicked off her boots, threw her scarf on the floor, the paper streamers fluttered in the warmth from the stove, everybody clapped their paws and Snufkin stopped playing with a loud cry! Mymble laughed with self-satisfied pride.
    Everybody shouted: 'Bravo! bravo!' and the Hemulen said with genuine admiration: 'Thank you ever so much.'
    'Don't thank me,' Mymble answered. 'I can't stop myself. You ought to do the same thing!'
    Fillyjonk stood up and said: 'Not being able to stop doing something and having to do it don't go together. I don't think that what one should do is the same thing as not being able to stop oneself doing it...' They all reached for their glasses, thinking that Fillyjonk was going to make a speech. When nothing came of it they all started to shout for more music. But Grandpa-Grumble was no longer interested, he sat fiddling with his napkin, rolling it up until it became thicker and smaller. The most likely thing was that the Ancestor felt hurt. A guest of honour ought to be escorted to a party, as people used to do in the old days. They had all behaved very badly.
    Suddenly Grandpa-Grumble stood up and banged on the table. 'We have behaved very badly,' he said. 'We've started the party without our guest of honour and we haven't escorted him down the stairs. You're all too young and know nothing about style. You haven't even seen a charade once in your lives! What is a programme without a charade? I'm merely asking you. Now listen to what I have to say to you! Taking part in a programme means giving one's best and now I propose to show my friend the Ancestor. He is not tired. He's not weak at the knees. He's angry!'
    While Grandpa-Grumble was talking, Fillyjonk was seeing to the serving of the Welsh rarebits, discreetly, but doing it all the same. Grandpa-Grumble followed each Welsh rarebit as it arrived with his eyes, saw them land up on their plates and then yelled: 'You're spoiling my turn!'
    'Oh, I'm sorry,' said Fillyjonk, 'but they're hot, they've just come out of the oven...'
    'Bring them with you, bring them with you,' said Grandpa-Grumble impatiently. 'But hide them behind your backs so that he won't feel even more hurt. And take your glasses, too, so that you can drink his health.'
    *
    Fillyjonk held up a paper lantern and Grandpa-Grumble opened the clothes-cupboard. He bowed deeply. The Ancestor bowed, too.
    'I can't be bothered to introduce them all to you,' Grandpa-Grumble said. 'You'd forget their names, and it's not all that important anyway.' He held out his glass towards the Ancestor and it clinked as they drank each other's