It's Not The Sort Of

The Wild Wood Is Pretty Well Populated By Now; With All The Usual Lot, Good, Bad, And Indifferent--i Name No Names. It Takes All Sorts To Make A World.

The Smell Of That Buttered Toast Simply Spoke To Toad, And With No Uncertain Voice; Talked Of Warm Kitchens, Of Breakfasts On Bright Frosty Mornings, Of Cozy Parlour Firesides On Winter Evenings, When One's Ramble Was Over And Slippered Feet Were Propped On The Fender; Of The Purring Of Contented Cats, And The Twitter Of Sleepy Canaries.

Since Early Morning He Had Been Swimming In The River, In Company With His Friends The Ducks. And When The Ducks Stood On Their Heads Suddenly, As Ducks Will, He Would Dive Down And Tickle Their Necks, Just Under Where Their Chins Would Be If Ducks Had Chins, Till They Were Forced To Come To The Surface Again In A Hurry, Spluttering And Angry And Shaking Their Feathers At Him, For It Is Impossible To Say Quite All You Feel When Your Head Is Under Water.

Animals When In Company Walk In A Proper And Sensible Manner, In Single File, Instead Of Sprawling All Across The Road And Being Of No Use Or Support To Each Other In Case Of Sudden Trouble Or Danger.

As A Rule, Indeed, Grown-up People Are Fairly Correct On Matters Of Fact; It Is In The Higher Gift Of Imagination That They Are So Sadly To Seek.