“Arden, Arden, Arden,
Lawn and castle and garden;
Daisies and grass and wallflowers gold—
Mouldiwarp, come out of the mould.”
“That’s more like poetry, that is,” said the Mouldiwarp, sitting on the green grass between the children; “more lik’n anything I’ve heard ye say yet—so ’tis. An’ now den, what is it for you dis fine day an’ all?”
It seemed in such a good temper that Elfrida asked a question that had long tried to get itself asked.
“Why,” was the question, and it was spoken to the white mole,—“why do you talk like the country people do?”
“Sussex barn an’ bred,” said the mole, “but I know other talk. Sussex talks what they call ‘racy of the soil’—means ‘smells of the earth’ where I live. I can talk all sorts, though. I used to spit French once on a time, young Fitz-le-seigneur.”
“You must know lots and lots,” said Edred.
“I do,” said the mole.