Duncton Tales
“Whatever the burdens she already carried, life had now thrust another upon her, and its shape was puppish, and its sound was puppish, and its effect was puppish: which is to say it offered no possibility of escape.Twisting, turning, bleating, feeding, excreting, waking, always waking, crying, scrabbling, sniffling, there was not one single troublesome wakesome ‘-ing’ that the pup Whillan did not do, and many that Privet had never dreamed a mole might do.The first day or two was one long frantic... worry over keeping him alive, for he/Seemed limp and desperate, his little furless chest heaving in and out as if breath was in short supply and he had best get it while he may, his mouth sucking for milk she could not give. It seemed certain that death was lurking just beyond the portal of her sparse and modest burrow on the slopes, awaiting the slightest excuse to enter and take the pup away.But like so many moles who must care for young they have not borne, instinct and necessity found a form of nourishment in chewed worm and spittle.MoreLess
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