“If people would be more careful,” said a field-mouse rather stiffly, “and look where they’re going, people wouldn’t hurt themselves⁠—and forget themselves. Mind that holdall, Rat! You’d better sit down somewhere. In an hour or two we may be more free to attend to you.”

“You won’t be ‘free’ as you call it, much this side of Christmas, I can see that,” retorted the Rat grumpily, as he picked his way out of the field.

He returned somewhat despondently to his river again⁠—his faithful, steady-going old river, which never packed up, flitted, or went into winter quarters.

In the osiers which fringed the bank he spied a swallow sitting. Presently it was joined by another, and then by a third; and the birds, fidgeting restlessly on their bough, talked together earnestly and low.

“What, already ,” said the Rat, strolling up to them. “What’s the hurry? I call it simply ridiculous.”