Onion Sauce! Onion Sauce!

It Is The Restrictions Placed On Vice By Our Social Code Which Makes Its Pursuit So Peculiarly Agreeable.

There Was The Noise Of A Bolt Shot Back, And The Door Opened A Few Inches, Enough To Show A Long Snout And A Pair Of Sleepy Blinking Eyes.

Toad Talked Big About All He Was Going To Do In The Days To Come, While Stars Grew Fuller And Larger All Around Them, And A Yellow Moon, Appearing Suddenly And Silently From Nowhere In Particular, Came To Keep Them Company And Listen To Their Talk.

The Rat, Meanwhile, Was Busy Examining The Label On One Of The Beer-bottles. "i Perceive This To Be Old Burton," He Remarked Approvingly. "sensible Mole! The Very Thing! Now We Shall Be Able To Mull Some Ale. Get The Things Ready, Mole, While I Draw The Corks."

There He Got Out The Luncheon-basket And Packed A Simple Meal, In Which, Remembering The Stranger's Origin And Preferences, He Took Care To Include A Yard Of Long French Bread, A Sausage Out Of Which The Garlic Sang, Some Cheese Which Lay Down And Cried, And A Long-necked Straw-covered Flask Wherein Lay Bottled Sunshine Shed And Garnered On Far Southern Slopes.