Now ..

'.. it passes on and I begin to lose it,'
 he said presently.  'O Mole! the beauty
of it!  The merry bubble and joy, the
thin, clear, happy call of the distant
piping!  Such music I never dreamed of,
and the call in it is stronger even than
the music is sweet!  Row on, Mole, row! 
For the music and the call must be for us.'

The Mole, greatly wondering, obeyed.  'I
hear nothing myself,' he said, 'but the wind
playing in the reeds and rushes and osiers.'



Kenneth Grahame,  The Wind in the Willows