'Badger hates Society,
and invitations, and dinner, and all that sort of thing.'
'Well, then, supposing we go and call on HIM?' suggested the Mole.
'O, I'm sure he wouldn't like that at ALL,' said the Rat, quite
alarmed. 'He's so very shy, he'd be sure to be offended. I've never
even ventured to call on him at his own home myself, though I know him
so well. Besides, we can't. It's quite out of the question, because
he lives in the very middle of the Wild Wood.'
'Well, supposing he does,' said the Mole. 'You told me the Wild Wood
was all right, you know.'
'O, I know, I know, so it is,' replied the Rat evasively. 'But I
think we won't go there just now. Not JUST yet. It's a long way, and
he wouldn't be at home at this time of year anyhow, and he'll be
coming along some day, if you'll wait quietly.'
The Mole had to be content with this. But the Badger never came
along, and every day brought its amusements, and it was not till
summer was long over, and cold and frost and miry ways kept them much
indoors, and the swollen river raced past outside their windows with a
speed that mocked at boating of any sort or kind, that he found his
thoughts dwelling again with much persistence on the solitary grey
Badger, who lived his own life by himself, in his hole in the middle
of the Wild Wood.
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