d
began to nibble the grass; and Toad, waking up, just saved himself from
falling off by an effort. He looked about him and found he was on a wide
common, dotted with patches of gorse and bramble as far as he could see.
Near him stood a dingy gipsy caravan, and beside it a man was sitting on
a bucket turned upside down, very busy smoking and staring into the wide
world. A fire of sticks was burning near by, and over the fire hung an
iron pot, and out of that pot came forth bubblings and gurglings, and
a vague suggestive steaminess. Also smells--warm, rich, and varied
smells--that twined and twisted and wreathed themselves at last into one
complete, voluptuous, perfect smell that seemed like the very soul of
Nature taking form and appearing to her children, a true Goddess, a
mother of solace and comfort. Toad now knew well that he had not been
really hungry before. What he had felt earlier in the day had been a
mere trifling qualm. This was the real thing at last, and no mistake;
and it would have to be dealt with speedily, too, or there would be
trouble for somebody or something. He looked the gipsy over carefully,
wondering vaguely whether it would be easier to fight him or cajole him.
So there he sat, and sniffed and sniffed, and looked at the gipsy; and
the gipsy sat and smoked, and looked at him.

Presently the gipsy took his pipe out of his mouth and remarked in a
careless way, 'Want to sell that there horse of yours?'

Toad was completely taken aback. He did not know that gipsies were very
fond of horse-dealing, and never missed an opportunity, and he had
not reflected that caravans were always on the move and took a deal of
drawing. It had not occurred to him to turn the horse into cash, but the
gipsy's suggestion seemed to smooth the way towards the two things he
wanted so badly--ready money, and a solid breakfast.

'What?' he said, 'me sell this beautiful young horse of mine? O, no;
it's out of the question. Who's going to take the washing home to my
customers every week? Besides, I'm too fond of him, and he simply dotes
on me.'

'Try and love a donkey,' suggested the gipsy. 'Some people do.'

'You don't seem to see,' continued Toad, 'that this fine horse of mine
is a cut above you altogether. He's a blood horse, he is, partly;
not the part you see, of course--another part. And he's been a Prize
Hackney, too, in his time--that was the time before you knew him, but
you can still tell it on him at a glance,