Originally published 28 May 1990
Water Rat and Mole were sitting on the River Bank listening to the sound of the wind in the willows.
“Whatever became of old Mr. Badger?” asked the Rat.
“I don’t know,” said the Mole. “Certainly you don’t see him around much anymore.”
“Remember the time we visited him in his burrow…”
“Sett,” the Mole corrected. “His home is called a sett.”
“…in his sett,” said the Rat. “What a cozy place it was. All those rooms and connecting passages and hidden exits. Ancient the place was. I think Badger’s family had been living there for generations.”
“He was a kindly gentleman,” mused the Mole, remembering happy times by Mr. Badger’s fire. “But I hear Badger and his relations have been having a hard time of it lately. You see, I read this book, two books actually, by a person named Chris Ferris…”
“Oh yes, I heard her talking about threats to wildlife on the radio. The way I understand it, Moly, all of us Kenneth Grahame-types are in trouble.”
“Chris Ferris is quite a remarkable woman,” the Mole said. “Twenty-five years ago she damaged her back and found that she couldn’t sleep without pain for more than a few hours each night. At first she just roamed about the house at night, trying not to disturb her family. Then she began taking long walks in the countryside. Not many folks out walking between midnight and dawn. The police and her neighbors thought she was crazy.”
“Doesn’t sound crazy to me,” said the Rat. “That’s the time most of us fellows love to be out and about.”
“Exactly!” exclaimed the Mole. “That’s the time badgers and foxes and tawny owls and…well, you know what I mean. Anyway, pretty soon Chris Ferris had staked out a territory — woods, fields, and hedgerows, a square-mile or so of countryside — and began observing the nocturnal habits of animals.”
“Doesn’t sound easy. I know that I’d lay low if I saw her coming, and dare say other animals would do the same.”
“Wasn’t easy at first. But she had the advantage of being small — just over five-feet tall and barely a hundred pounds in weight. Crouching down in a ditch under a holly bush she wasn’t much bigger than the badgers she was watching. But the real secret of her success was persistence. Night after night, year after year, in all kinds of weather. After a while the badgers took her as one of their own. Made her party to their comings and goings and foragings and matings and play. Even musked her — put their scent on her — so that they could follow her around. And her night vision became excellent.”
“The darkness is light enough,” said the Rat, superciliously.
“Yes,” said the Mole. “That’s exactly the title she used when she published her journals in 1984. Richard Adams — you know, the Watership Down bloke and himself no slouch as a naturalist — called it ‘the most gripping and moving book about wildlife in the English countryside for 60 years.’ The badger authority Ernest Neal said her work was ‘a magnificent accomplishment which I venture to say has never before been achieved by any naturalist.’ ”
“Did you read her journals?”
“I did,” replied the Mole, “and they are indeed an exceptional document. Now I’ve just read her second book on badger-watching, Out of the Darkness. Not only a solid work of natural history, but another ripping yarn about her battles with wildlife vandals. And a third book is on the way.”
“But — but whatever happened to Mr. Badger?” asked the Rat, plaintively.
“Well, that’s just it. It turns out that badgers have more than their share of human enemies. For some reason, a lot of people think badgers deserve to be exterminated.”
“Sounds unfair to me,” said the Rat. “Old Mr. Badger was one of the nicest chaps I have ever known.”
“Very true, Ratty. And the badgers observed by Ferris seem harmless enough. Lovable even. But there are plenty of hunters out at night with lamps and dogs and guns — mostly men in their 40s, according to Ferris…”
“Aren’t badgers protected by law?”
“Ha! You think that makes a difference? You should read about what happened to Ferris when she tried to protect her badger friends. Injuries, concussion, arm broken with a gun butt, time in hospital. Shot at several times. On one occasion badger hunters tried repeatedly to run her down with a van.”
“But why? Why…”
“Don’t know, Ratty. But thank goodness for people like Chris Ferris or badgers wouldn’t have a chance. The name is a pseudonym, by the way, to protect her badgers — and herself.”
“Let’s go up to Toad Hall and ask Mr. Toad. Maybe he knows why.”
“Excellent. Except that Mr. Toad doesn’t live there anymore. For some reason, toads and frogs are faring as poorly as badgers.”
