If he was alive today to celebrate, Kenneth Grahame would be 155 years old. He was the Scottish man responsible for The Wind in the Willows, a series of stories that began (but don't most good children's books begin this way?) as bedtime stories for his son.
It starts with a Mole who is doing his spring cleaning and becoming increasingly more impatient with the tedium of scrubbing and dusting. And the book continues in this way, with a continuous parade of animals who wear waistcoats and muse about the pleasures of picnicking and living near the river, and who have strong opinions about finance and the finer aspects of polite social calls . . .
This is the sort of party (if I may presume to know) that would be had by the Mole, the Water Rat, the Badger and the Toad, gathered to toast their literary creator. They would drink hot tea around a cozy table one evening, cutting slices of an apple spice cake, and everything would be laid out very properly, but with an earthy feeling around the edges.
Here's to you, Mr. Grahame.
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