The faint whisper of rain and running water was still there and it had the same tender note of solitude and perfection. But what did the rain mean to him as long as he couldn’t write a song about it

‘Tonight is the night for a song,’ thought Snufkin. ‘I’ll think up a new song that is one part anticipation, two parts pining for spring, and the rest a joyous declaration of how wonderful it is to be alone and at peace with yourself.’

“Making a journey by night is more wonderful than anything in the world.”

I knew nothing, but I believed a lot.

You are like Diana, Moomintroll said admiringly.
– Who is she? asked the Snorkmaiden, obviously flattered
– She was the goddess of hunting, explained Moomintroll.
As beautiful as the Wooden Queen and just as clever as you.

“Hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”

Quite, quite,’ she thought with a little sigh. ‘It’s always like this in their adventures. To save and be saved. I wish somebody would write a story sometime about the people who warm up the heroes afterward.

The very last house stood all by itself under a dark green wall of fir-trees, and here the wild country really began. Snufkin walked faster and faster straight into the forest. Then the door of the last house opened a chink and a very old voice cried: ‘Where are you off to?’
‘I don’t know,’ Snufkin replied.
The door shut again and Snufkin entered his forest, with a hundred miles of silence ahead of him.

At times he thought he could clearly see the trail that Snufkin had made on the sodden ground. The tracks skipped and danced here and there, and were difficult to follow. On occasion they took great leaps and even crossed paths. “He must have been feeling quite happy,” thought Moomintroll. “I believe that right here he has even done a somersault.

“What is it?” said Moomintroll. Discoveries were his very favourite thing (after mysterious paths, swimming and secrets, that is).

I think I’m beginning to understand now,” said Moomintroll slowly. “You aren’t a collector any longer, are you? Now you are just an owner. That’s nowhere near as much fun.” “No,” said the Hemulen thoroughly dejected. “It is most decidedly nowhere near as much fun.

Lie on the bridge and watch the water flowing past. Or run, or wade through the swamp in your red boots. Or roll yourself up and listen to the rain falling on the roof. It’s very easy to enjoy yourself.

“A theatre is the most important sort of house in the world, because that’s where people are shown what they could be if they wanted, and what they’d like to be if they dared to and what they really are.”