He Had Got Down To

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.

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.

Don't, For Goodness' Sake, Keep On Saying 'don't'; I Hear So Much Of It, And It's Monotonous, And Makes Me Tired.

Banquets Are Always Pleasant Things, Consisting Mostly, As They Do, Of Eating And Drinking; But The Specially Nice Thing About A Banquet Is, That It Comes When Something's Over, And There's Nothing More To Worry About, And To-morrow Seems A Long Way Off.

"glorious, Stirring Sight!" Murmured Toad. . . . "the Poetry Of Motion! The Real Way To Travel! The Only Way To Travel! Here Today - In Next Week Tomorrow! Villages Skipped, Towns And Cities Jumped- Always Somebody Else's Horizons! O Bliss! O Poop-poop! O My! O My!"