madeira was the equivalent to Miss Bugle of several casks to those more used to alcoholic beverage.
“To victory!” cried the Mole in loud response, to whom it seemed that the image of Mr Toad Senior upon the mantelpiece, and that of several Father Christmases all about, were one and the same, and each one a stalwart party to their shared purpose and revolutionary intent.
“Let’s finish off the madeira,” said Miss Bugle rather too loudly, and the Mole saw that she was not to be denied, “and then we shall make some plans!”
The two huddled forward in their chairs in the manner of conspirators and agreed that each would do all they could over the next few days to find a way to release Mr Toad from his bondage to the past, in the belief that by doing so they would be helping to free the River Bank.
Later, with the servants’ bell now sounding angrily to summon Miss Bugle from far below, she and Mole set about the sad but necessary task of packing up the decorations and carrying them up to the attic till finally, their work done, Miss Bugle closed the attic door behind them.
“You had better use the servants’ entrance again, Mr Mole, in case she sees you,” advised Miss Bugle. “Good night, Mr Mole.”
Thus Mole took his leave and, with so much to think upon, barely noticed that the night was blowing up a storm as he walked across the fields to his familiar front door. Once safely inside, he lit a candle and poured himself a glass of his famous sloe and blackberry. But no sooner had he settled down in the comfort of his own armchair than he heard a whispering at his front door, and a timid knock.
“The field-mice! The field-mice have come a-carolling — Christmas is truly here!” he cried, as he leapt to his feet and hurried to the door to let them come tumbling in — shy, talkative, laughing and finally singing out their Christmas songs.
Mole warmed some mince pies and handed round some fruit punch. Then he told them some stories of his childhood, and yielded to their demands to hear how he and Mr Badger and the Water Rat and the great Mr Toad had once wrested Toad Hall back from the weasels and stoats.
Till at last, when their parents came by to take them home, Mole’s Christmas Eve was nearly done.
Yet not quite.
He still had to propose the final toast of the night. He opened his front door and raised his glass to such stars as he could see. “To the memory of my family,” said he, “to my parents long gone, to my sister long lost, and my errant brother rarely found. And to my nephew, who I have never met. Wherever they may be, may the Christmas spirit be with them in the festive days ahead and bring them health and happiness, and contentment.” He paused a moment, as the swirling clouds opened up to reveal the moon and stars more clearly than before.
Mole stared and wondered at what he saw and remembered someone he would like to see again.
Meanwhile, far off, further away in the wide world than the Mole had ever been or hoped to go, and as bells ancient and modern rang in a new Christmas, there was another who watched the moon, and saw the stars, and thought of Mole.
“Merry Christmas, my dear,” said Mole’s lost sister to the distant night, tears in her eyes, “a very Merry Christmas, wherever you may be.”
Nor, in those wishes, was she quite alone. For just across the fields, the candles in her parlour now nearly all gone out, Miss Bugle also stared out from her window, and watched the moon’s brief show.
She whispered a Merry Christmas to the world and impulsively, in the same breath as she mentioned the Mr Toads, Senior and Junior, she dared to add the name of Mr Mole, who had given her so much pleasure that afternoon, and renewed her faith in Christmases past, present and future.
“May his wishes all come true,” she said.
She did not close her window till long after the bells of the Village church had ceased to chime.
“I wonder —” she whispered as she blew
“To victory!” cried the Mole in loud response, to whom it seemed that the image of Mr Toad Senior upon the mantelpiece, and that of several Father Christmases all about, were one and the same, and each one a stalwart party to their shared purpose and revolutionary intent.
“Let’s finish off the madeira,” said Miss Bugle rather too loudly, and the Mole saw that she was not to be denied, “and then we shall make some plans!”
The two huddled forward in their chairs in the manner of conspirators and agreed that each would do all they could over the next few days to find a way to release Mr Toad from his bondage to the past, in the belief that by doing so they would be helping to free the River Bank.
Later, with the servants’ bell now sounding angrily to summon Miss Bugle from far below, she and Mole set about the sad but necessary task of packing up the decorations and carrying them up to the attic till finally, their work done, Miss Bugle closed the attic door behind them.
“You had better use the servants’ entrance again, Mr Mole, in case she sees you,” advised Miss Bugle. “Good night, Mr Mole.”
Thus Mole took his leave and, with so much to think upon, barely noticed that the night was blowing up a storm as he walked across the fields to his familiar front door. Once safely inside, he lit a candle and poured himself a glass of his famous sloe and blackberry. But no sooner had he settled down in the comfort of his own armchair than he heard a whispering at his front door, and a timid knock.
“The field-mice! The field-mice have come a-carolling — Christmas is truly here!” he cried, as he leapt to his feet and hurried to the door to let them come tumbling in — shy, talkative, laughing and finally singing out their Christmas songs.
Mole warmed some mince pies and handed round some fruit punch. Then he told them some stories of his childhood, and yielded to their demands to hear how he and Mr Badger and the Water Rat and the great Mr Toad had once wrested Toad Hall back from the weasels and stoats.
Till at last, when their parents came by to take them home, Mole’s Christmas Eve was nearly done.
Yet not quite.
He still had to propose the final toast of the night. He opened his front door and raised his glass to such stars as he could see. “To the memory of my family,” said he, “to my parents long gone, to my sister long lost, and my errant brother rarely found. And to my nephew, who I have never met. Wherever they may be, may the Christmas spirit be with them in the festive days ahead and bring them health and happiness, and contentment.” He paused a moment, as the swirling clouds opened up to reveal the moon and stars more clearly than before.
Mole stared and wondered at what he saw and remembered someone he would like to see again.
Meanwhile, far off, further away in the wide world than the Mole had ever been or hoped to go, and as bells ancient and modern rang in a new Christmas, there was another who watched the moon, and saw the stars, and thought of Mole.
“Merry Christmas, my dear,” said Mole’s lost sister to the distant night, tears in her eyes, “a very Merry Christmas, wherever you may be.”
Nor, in those wishes, was she quite alone. For just across the fields, the candles in her parlour now nearly all gone out, Miss Bugle also stared out from her window, and watched the moon’s brief show.
She whispered a Merry Christmas to the world and impulsively, in the same breath as she mentioned the Mr Toads, Senior and Junior, she dared to add the name of Mr Mole, who had given her so much pleasure that afternoon, and renewed her faith in Christmases past, present and future.
“May his wishes all come true,” she said.
She did not close her window till long after the bells of the Village church had ceased to chime.
“I wonder —” she whispered as she blew
Similar Books
