It's Not The Sort Of Night For

The River... It's My World, And I Don't Want Any Other. What It Hasn't Got Is Not Worth Having, And What It Doesn't Know Is Not Worth Knowing. Lord! The Times We've Had Together!

In Midmost Of The Stream, Embraced In The Weir's Shimmering Arm-spread, A Small Island Lay Anchored, Fringed Close With Willow And Silver Birch And Alder. Reserved, Shy, But Full Of Significance, It Hid Whatever It Might Hold Behind A Veil, Keeping It Till The Hour Should Come, And, With The Hour, Those Who Were Called And Chosen.

The Mole Was Bewitched, Entranced, Fascinated. By The Side Of The River He Trotted As One Trots, When Very Small, By The Side Of A Man Who Holds One Spellbound By Exciting Stories; And When Tired At Last, He Sat On The Bank, While The River Still Chattered On To Him, A Babbling Procession Of The Best Stories In The World, Sent From The Heart Of The Earth To Be Told At Last To The Insatiable Sea.

Weasels--and Stoats--and Foxes--and So On. They're All Right In A Way--i'm Very Good Friends With Them--pass The Time Of Day When We Meet, And All That--but They Break Out Sometimes, There's No Denying It, And Then--well, You Can't Really Trust Them, And That's The Fact.

Everything Seems Asleep, And Yet Going On All The Time. It Is A Goodly Life That You Lead, Friend; No Doubt The Best In The World, If Only You Are Strong Enough To Lead It!