Chimney sweeps -- Juvenile fiction; Fairy tales -- England
But he could not help thinking of what the otter had said about the great
river and the broad sea. And, as he thought, he longed to go and see
them. He could not tell why; but the more he thought, the more he grew
discontented with the narrow little stream in which he lived, and all his
companions there; and wanted to get out into the wide wide world, and
enjoy all the wonderful sights of which he was sure it was full.
And once he set off to go down the stream. But the stream was very low;
and when he came to the shallows he could not keep under water, for there
was no water left to keep under. So the sun burned his back and made him
sick; and he went back again and lay quiet in the pool for a whole week
more.
And then, on the evening of a very hot day, he saw a sight.
He had been very stupid all day, and so had the trout; for they would not
move an inch to take a fly, though there were thousands on the water, but
lay dozing at the bottom under the shade of the stones; and Tom lay
dozing too, and was glad to cuddle their smooth cool sides, for the water
was quite warm and unpleasant.
But toward evening it grew suddenly dark, and Tom looked up and saw a
blanket of black clouds lying right across the valley above his head,
resting on the crags right and left. He felt not quite frightened, but
very still; for everything was still. There was not a whisper of wind,
nor a chirp of a bird to be heard; and next a few great drops of rain
fell plop into the water, and one hit Tom on the nose, and made him pop
his head down quickly enough.
And then the thunder roared, and the lightning flashed, and leapt across
Vendale and back again, from cloud to cloud, and cliff to cliff, till the
very rocks in the stream seemed to shake: and Tom looked up at it through
the water, and thought it the finest thing he ever saw in his life.
But out of the water he dared not put his head; for the rain came down by
bucketsful, and the hail hammered like shot on the stream, and churned it
into foam; and soon the stream rose, and rushed down, higher and higher,
and fouler and fouler, full of beetles, and sticks; and straws, and
worms, and addle-eggs, and wood-lice, and leeches, and odds and ends, and
omnium-gatherums, and this, that, and the other, enough to fill nine
museums.
Tom could hardly stand against the stream, and hid behind a rock. But
the trout did not; for out they rushed from among the stones, and began
gobbling the beetles and leeches in the most greedy and quarrelsome way,
and swimming about with great worms hanging out of their mouths, tugging
and kicking to get them away from each other.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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