The Mole had been working very hard all morning, spring-cleaning his little home. There were splashes of whitewash all over his black fur. His back ached and his arms were tired. It was spring in the world outside. Mole could feel the fresh air and sunshine calling to him in his dark, underground burrow. Suddenly he threw his brush down. "Bother!" he said. "Oh, blow!" he said. "Hang spring-cleaning!" He bolted out of the house and scrambled up the steep narrow tunnel which was his front entrance. He had to scrape and scratch, and scrabble and scrooge with his little paws, muttering to himself all the time, "Up we go! Up we go!" At last — pop! — his snout came out into the sunlight, and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow.
