There seemed to be no end to this wood, and no beginning, and no difference in it, and, worse of all, no way out

"Glorious, stirring sight!" murmured Toad. . . . "The poetry of motion! The real way to travel! The only way to travel! Here today - in next week tomorrow! Villages skipped, towns and cities jumped- always somebody else's horizons! O bliss! O poop-poop! O my! O my!"

There is nothing - absolutely nothing - half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.

For my life, I confess to you, feels to me today somewhat narrow and circumscribed.

Weasels--and stoats--and foxes--and so on. They're all right in a way--I'm very good friends with them--pass the time of day when we meet, and all that--but they break out sometimes, there's no denying it, and then--well, you can't really trust them, and that's the fact.

No animal, according to the rules of animal-etiquette, is ever expected to do anything strenuous, or heroic, or even moderately active during the off-season of winter.

He had got down to the bones of it, and they were fine and strong and simple.