Little Tookhees the wood mouse, the 'Fraid One, as Simmo calls him,
always makes two appearances when you squeak to bring him out. First,
after much peeking, he runs out of his tunnel; sits up once on his hind
legs; rubs his eyes with his paws; looks up for the owl, and behind him
for the fox, and straight ahead at the tent where the man lives; then
he dives back headlong into his tunnel with a rustle of leaves and a
frightened whistle, as if Kupkawis the little owl had seen him. That is
to reassure himself. In a moment he comes back softly to see what kind
of crumbs you have given him.
No wonder Tookhees is so timid, for there is no place in earth or air or
water, outside his own little doorway under the mossy stone, where he is
safe. Above him the owls watch by night and the hawks by day; around him
not a prowler of the wilderness, from Mooween the bear down through a
score of gradations, to Kagax the bloodthirsty little weasel, but will
sniff under every old log in the hope of finding a wood mouse; and if he
takes a swim, as he is fond of doing, not a big trout in the river but
leaves his eddy to rush at the tiny ripple holding bravely across the
current. So, with all these enemies waiting to catch him the moment he
ventures out, Tookhees must needs make one or two false starts in order
to find out where the coast is clear.
That is why he always dodges back after his first appearance; why he
gives you two or three swift glimpses of himself, now here, now there,
before coming out into the light. He knows his enemies are so hungry, so
afraid he will get away or that somebody else will catch him, that they
jump for him the moment he shows a whisker. So eager are they for his
flesh, and so sure, after missing him, that the swoop of wings or the
snap of red jaws has scared him into permanent hiding, that they pass on
to other trails. And when a prowler, watching from behind a stump, sees
Tookhees flash out of sight and hears his startled squeak, he thinks
naturally that the keen little eyes have seen the tail, which he forgot
to curl close enough, and so sneaks away as if ashamed of himself. Not
even the fox, whose patience is without end, has learned the wisdom of
waiting for Tookhees' second appearance. And that is the salvation of
the little 'Fraid One.
From all these enemies Tookhees has one refuge, the little arched nest
beyond the pretty doorway under the mossy stone. Most of his enemies
can dig, to be sure, but his tunnel winds about in such a way that they
never can tell from the looks of his doorway where it leads to;
and there are no snakes in the wilderness to follow and find out.
Occasionally I have seen where Mooween the bear has turned the stone
over and clawed the earth beneath; but there is generally a tough root
in the way, and Mooween concludes that he is taking too much trouble
for so small a mouthful, and shuffles off to the log where the red ants
live.
On his journeys through the woods Tookhees never forgets the dangerous
possibilities. His progress is a series of jerks, and whisks, and jumps,
and hidings. He leaves his doorway, after much watching, and shoots
like a minnow across the moss to an upturned root. There he sits up and
listens, rubbing his whiskers nervously. Then he glides along the root
for a couple of feet, drops to the ground and disappears. He is hiding
there under a dead leaf. A moment of stillness and he jumps like a
jack-in-abox. Now he is sitting on the leaf that covered him, rubbing
his whiskers again, looking back over his trail as if he heard footsteps
behind him. Then another nervous dash, a squeak which proclaims at once
his escape, and his arrival, and he vanishes under the old moss-grown
log where his fellows live, a whole colony of them.
All these things, and many more, I discovered the first season that I
began to study the wild things that lived within sight of my tent. I
had been making long excursions after bear and beaver, following on
wild-goose chases after Old Whitehead the eagle and Kakagos the wild
woods raven that always escaped me, only to find that within the warm
circle of my camp-fire little wild folk were hiding whose lives were
more unknown and quite as interesting as the greater creatures I had
been following.
One day, as I returned quietly to camp, I saw Simmo quite lost in
watching something near my tent. He stood beside a great birch tree, one
hand resting against the bark that he would claim next winter for his
new canoe; the other hand still grasped his axe, which he had picked up
a moment before to quicken the tempo of the bean kettle's song. His dark
face peered behind the tree with a kind of childlike intensity written
all over it.
I stole nearer without his hearing me; but I could see nothing. The
woods were all still. Killooleet was dozing by his nest; the chickadees
had vanished, knowing that it was not meal time; and Meeko the red
squirrel had been made to jump from the fir top to the ground so often
that now he kept sullenly to his own hemlock across the island, nursing
his sore feet and scolding like a fury whenever I approached. Still
Simmo watched, as if a bear were approaching his bait, till I whispered,
"Quiee, Simmo, what is it?"
"Nodwar k'chee Toquis, I see little 'Fraid One'" he said, unconsciously
dropping into his own dialect, which is the softest speech in the world,
so soft that wild things are not disturbed when they hear it, thinking
it only a louder sough of the pines or a softer tunking of ripples on
the rocks.--"O bah cosh, see! He wash-um face in yo lil cup." And when
I tiptoed to his side, there was Tookhees sitting on the rim of my
drinking cup, in which I had left a new leader to soak for the evening's
fishing, scrubbing his face diligently, like a boy who is watched from
behind to see that he slights not his ears or his neck.
Remembering my own boyhood on cold mornings, I looked behind him to see
if he also were under compulsion, but there was no other mouse in sight.
He would scoop up a double handful of water in his paws, rub it rapidly
up over nose and eyes, and then behind his ears, on the spots that wake
you up quickest when you are sleepy. Then another scoop of water, and
another vigorous rub, ending behind his ears as before.
Simmo was full of wonder, for an Indian notices few things in the woods
beside those that pertain to his trapping and hunting; and to see a
mouse wash his face was as incomprehensible to him as to see me read a
book. But all wood mice are very cleanly; they have none of the strong
odors of our house mice. Afterwards, while getting acquainted, I saw him
wash many times in the plate of water that I kept filled near his den;
but he never washed more than his face and the sensitive spot behind his
ears. Sometimes, however, when I have seen him swimming in the lake
or river, I have wondered whether he were going on a journey, or just
bathing for the love of it, as he washed his face in my cup.
I left the cup where it was and spread a feast for the little guest,
cracker crumbs and a bit of candle end. In the morning they were gone,
the signs of several mice telling plainly who had been called in from
the wilderness byways. That was the introduction of man to beast. Soon
they came regularly. I had only to scatter crumbs and squeak a few times
like a mouse, when little streaks and flashes would appear on the moss
or among the faded gold tapestries of old birch leaves, and the little
wild things would come to my table, their eyes shining like jet, their
tiny paws lifted to rub their whiskers or to shield themselves from the
fear under which they lived continually.
They were not all alike--quite the contrary. One, the same who had
washed in my cup, was gray and old, and wise from much dodging of
enemies. His left ear was split from a fight, or an owl's claw,
probably, that just missed him as he dodged under a root. He was at
once the shyest and boldest of the lot. For a day or two he came with
marvelous stealth, making use of every dead leaf and root tangle to hide
his approach, and shooting across the open spaces so quickly that one
knew not what had happened--just a dun streak which ended in nothing.
And the brown leaf gave no sign of what it sheltered. But once assured
of his ground, he came boldly. This great man-creature, with his face
close to the table, perfectly still but for his eyes, with a hand that
moved gently if it moved at all, was not to be feared--that Tookhees
felt instinctively. And this strange fire with hungry odors, and the
white tent, and the comings and goings of men who were masters of the
woods kept fox and lynx and owl far away--that he learned after a day or
two. Only the mink, who crept in at night to steal the man's fish, was
to be feared. So Tookhees presently gave up his nocturnal habits and
came out boldly into the sunlight. Ordinarily the little creatures come
out in the dusk, when their quick movements are hidden among the shadows
that creep and quiver. But with fear gone, they are only too glad to run
about in the daylight, especially when good things to eat are calling
them.
Besides the veteran there was a little mother-mouse, whose tiny gray
jacket was still big enough to cover a wonderful mother love, as I
afterwards found out. She never ate at my table, but carried her fare
away into hiding, not to feed her little ones-they were, too small as
yet--but thinking in some dumb way, behind the bright little eyes, that
they needed her and that her life must be spared with greater precaution
for their sakes. She would steal timidly to my table, always appearing
from under a gray shred of bark on a fallen birch log, following the
same path, first to a mossy stone, then to a dark hole under a root,
then to a low brake, and along the underside of a billet of wood to
the mouse table. There she would stuff both cheeks hurriedly, till
they bulged as if she had toothache, and steal away by the same path,
disappearing at last under the shred of gray bark.
For a long time it puzzled me to find her nest, which I knew could not
be far away. It was not in the birch log where she disappeared--that was
hollow the whole length--nor was it anywhere beneath it. Some distance
away was a large stone, half covered by the green moss which reached up
from every side. The most careful search here had failed to discover any
trace of Tookhees' doorway; so one day when the wind blew half a gale
and I was going out on the lake alone, I picked up this stone to put in
the bow of my canoe. That was to steady the little craft by bringing her
nose down to grip the water. Then the secret was out, and there it was
in a little dome of dried grass among some spruce roots under the stone.
The mother was away foraging, but a faint sibilant squeaking within the
dome told me that the little ones were there, and hungry as usual. As I
watched there was a swift movement in a tunnel among the roots, and
the mother-mouse came rushing back. She paused a moment, lifting her
forepaws against a root to sniff what danger threatened. Then she saw
my face bending over the opening--Et tu Brute! and she darted into the
nest. In a moment she was out again and disappeared into her tunnel,
running swiftly with her little ones hanging to her sides by a grip that
could not be shaken,--all but one, a delicate pink creature that one
could hide in a thimble, and that snuggled down in the darkest corner of
my hand confidently.
It was ten minutes before the little mother came back, looking anxiously
for the lost baby. When she found him safe in his own nest, with the
man's face still watching, she was half reassured; but when she threw
herself down and the little one began to drink, she grew fearful again
and ran away into the tunnel, the little one clinging to her side, this
time securely.
I put the stone back and gathered the moss carefully about it. In a few
days Mother Mouse was again at my table. I stole away to the stone, put
my ear close to it, and heard with immense satisfaction tiny squeaks,
which told me that the house was again occupied. Then I watched to find
the path by which Mother Mouse came to her own. When her cheeks were
full, she disappeared under the shred of bark by her usual route. That
led into the hollow center of the birch log, which she followed to the
end, where she paused a moment, eyes, ears, and nostrils busy; then she
jumped to a tangle of roots and dead leaves, beneath which was a tunnel
that led, deep down under the moss, straight to her nest beneath the
stone.
Besides these older mice, there were five or six smaller ones, all shy
save one, who from the first showed not the slightest fear but came
straight to my hand, ate his crumbs, and went up my sleeve, and
proceeded to make himself a warm nest there by nibbling wool from my
flannel shirt.
In strong contrast to this little fellow was another who knew too well
what fear meant. He belonged to another tribe that had not yet grown
accustomed to man's ways. I learned too late how careful one must be in
handling the little creatures that live continually in the land where
fear reigns.
A little way behind my tent was a great fallen log, mouldy and
moss-grown, with twin-flowers shaking their bells along its length,
under which lived a whole colony of wood mice. They ate the crumbs that
I placed by the log; but they could never be tolled to my table, whether
because they had no split-eared old veteran to spy out the man's ways,
or because my own colony drove them away, I could never find out. One
day I saw Tookhees dive under the big log as I approached, and having
nothing more important to do, I placed one big crumb near his entrance,
stretched out in the moss, hid my hand in a dead brake near the tempting
morsel, and squeaked the call. In a moment Tookhees' nose and eyes
appeared in his doorway, his whiskers twitching nervously as he smelled
the candle grease. But he was suspicious of the big object, or perhaps
he smelled the man too and was afraid, for after much dodging in and out
he disappeared altogether.
I was wondering how long his hunger would battle with his caution, when
I saw the moss near my bait stir from beneath. A little waving of the
moss blossoms, and Tookhees' nose and eyes appeared out of the ground
for an instant, sniffing in all directions. His little scheme was
evident enough now; he was tunneling for the morsel that he dared not
take openly. I watched with breathless interest as a faint quiver nearer
my bait showed where he was pushing his works. Then the moss stirred
cautiously close beside his objective; a hole opened; the morsel tumbled
in, and Tookhees was gone with his prize.
I placed more crumbs from my pocket in the same place, and presently
three or four mice were nibbling them. One sat up close by the dead
brake, holding a bit of bread in his forepaws like a squirrel. The brake
stirred suddenly; before he could jump my hand closed over him, and
slipping the other hand beneath him I held him up to my face to watch
him between my fingers. He made no movement to escape, but only trembled
violently. His legs seemed too weak to support his weight now; he lay
down; his eyes closed. One convulsive twitch and he was dead--dead of
fright in a hand which had not harmed him.
It was at this colony, whose members were all strangers to me, that I
learned in a peculiar way of the visiting habits of wood mice, and at
the same time another lesson that I shall not soon forget. For several
days I had been trying every legitimate way in vain to catch a big
trout, a monster of his kind, that lived in an eddy behind a rock up at
the inlet. Trout were scarce in that lake, and in summer the big fish
are always lazy and hard to catch. I was trout hungry most of the time,
for the fish that I caught were small, and few and far between. Several
times, however, when casting from the shore at the inlet for small fish,
I had seen swirls in a great eddy near the farther shore, which told me
plainly of big fish beneath; and one day, when a huge trout rolled half
his length out of water behind my fly, small fry lost all their interest
and I promised myself the joy of feeling my rod bend and tingle beneath
the rush of that big trout if it took all summer.
Flies were no use. I offered him a bookful, every variety of shape and
color, at dawn and dusk, without tempting him. I tried grubs, which bass
like, and a frog's leg, which no pickerel can resist, and little frogs,
such as big trout hunt among the lily pads in the twilight,--all without
pleasing him. And then waterbeetles, and a red squirrel's tail-tip,
which makes the best hackle in the world, and kicking grasshoppers, and
a silver spoon with a wicked "gang" of hooks, which I detest and which,
I am thankful to remember, the trout detested also. They lay there in
their big cool eddy, lazily taking what food the stream brought down to
them, giving no heed to frauds of any kind.
Then I caught a red-fin in the stream above, hooked it securely, laid it
on a big chip, coiled my line upon it, and set it floating down stream,
the line uncoiling gently behind it as it went. When it reached the
eddy I raised my rod tip; the line straightened; the red-fin plunged
overboard, and a two-pound trout, thinking, no doubt, that the little
fellow had been hiding under the chip, rose for him and took him in.
That was the only one I caught. His struggle disturbed the pool, and the
other trout gave no heed to more red-fins.
Then, one morning at daybreak, as I sat on a big rock pondering new
baits and devices, a stir on an alder bush across the stream caught my
eye. Tookhees the wood mouse was there, running over the bush, evidently
for the black catkins which still clung to the tips. As I watched him
he fell, or jumped from his branch into the quiet water below and, after
circling about for a moment, headed bravely across the current. I could
just see his nose as he swam, a rippling wedge against the black water
with a widening letter V trailing out behind him. The current swept
him downward; he touched the edge of the big eddy; there was a swirl,
a mighty plunge beneath, and Tookhees was gone, leaving no trace but a
swift circle of ripples that were swallowed up in the rings and dimples
behind the rock.--I had found what bait the big trout wanted.
Hurrying back to camp, I loaded a cartridge lightly with a pinch of dust
shot, spread some crumbs near the big log behind my tent, squeaked the
call a few times, and sat down to wait. "These mice are strangers to
me," I told Conscience, who was protesting a little, "and the woods are
full of them, and I want that trout."
In a moment there was a rustle in the mossy doorway and Tookhees
appeared. He darted across the open, seized a crumb in his mouth, sat
up on his hind legs, took the crumb in his paws, and began to eat. I had
raised the gun, thinking he would dodge back a few times before giving
me a shot; his boldness surprised me, but I did not recognize him. Still
my eye followed along the barrels and over the sight to where Tookhees
sat eating his crumb. My finger was pressing the trigger--"O you big
butcher," said Conscience, "think how little he is, and what a big roar
your gun will make! Aren't you ashamed?"
"But I want the trout," I protested.
"Catch him then, without killing this little harmless thing," said
Conscience sternly.
"But he is a stranger to me; I never--"
"He is eating your bread and salt," said Conscience. That settled it;
but even as I looked at him over the gun sight, Tookhees finished his
crumb, came to my foot, ran along my leg into my lap, and looked into my
face expectantly. The grizzled coat and the split ear showed the welcome
guest at my table for a week past. He was visiting the stranger colony,
as wood mice are fond of doing, and persuading them by his example that
they might trust me, as he did. More ashamed than if I had been caught
potting quail, I threw away the hateful shell that had almost slain my
friend and went back to camp.
There I made a mouse of a bit of muskrat fur, with a piece of my leather
shoestring sewed on for a tail. It served the purpose perfectly, for
within the hour I was gloating over the size and beauty of the big trout
as he stretched his length on the rock beside me. But I lost the fraud
at the next cast, leaving it, with a foot of my leader, in the mouth
of a second trout that rolled up at it the instant it touched his eddy
behind the rock.
After that the wood mice were safe so far as I was concerned. Not a
trout, though he were big as a salmon, would ever taste them, unless
they chose to go swimming of their own accord; and I kept their table
better supplied than before. I saw much of their visiting back and
forth, and have understood better what those tunnels mean that one finds
in the spring when the last snows are melting. In a corner of the woods,
where the drifts lay, you will often find a score of tunnels coming
in from all directions to a central chamber. They speak of Tookhees'
sociable nature, of his long visits with his fellows, undisturbed by
swoop or snap, when the packed snow above has swept the summer fear away
and made him safe from hawk and owl and fox and wildcat, and when no
open water tempts him to go swimming where Skooktum the big trout lies
waiting, mouse hungry, under his eddy.
The weeks passed all too quickly, as wilderness weeks do, and the sad
task of breaking camp lay just before us. But one thing troubled me--the
little Tookhees, who knew no fear, but tried to make a nest in the
sleeve of my flannel shirt. His simple confidence touched me more than
the curious ways of all the other mice. Every day he came and took his
crumbs, not from the common table, but from my, hand, evidently enjoying
its warmth while he ate, and always getting the choicest morsels. But I
knew that he would be the first one caught by the owl after I left;
for it is fear only that saves the wild things. Occasionally one finds
animals of various kinds in which the instinct of fear is lacking--a
frog, a young partridge, a moose calf--and wonders what golden age that
knew no fear, or what glorious vision of Isaiah in which lion and lamb
lie down together, is here set forth. I have even seen a young black
duck, whose natural disposition is wild as the wilderness itself, that
had profited nothing by his mother's alarms and her constant lessons in
hiding, but came bobbing up to my canoe among the sedges of a wilderness
lake, while his brethren crouched invisible in their coverts of bending
rushes, and his mother flapped wildly off, splashing and quacking and
trailing a wing to draw me away from the little ones.
Such an one is generally abandoned by its mother, or else is the
first to fall in the battle with the strong before she gives him up as
hopeless. Little Tookhees evidently belonged to this class, so before
leaving I undertook the task of teaching him fear, which had evidently
been too much for Nature and his own mother. I pinched him a few times,
hooting like an owl as I did so,--a startling process, which sent the
other mice diving like brown streaks to cover. Then I waved a branch
over him, like a hawk's wing, at the same time flipping him end over
end, shaking him up terribly. Then again, when he appeared with a new
light dawning in his eyes, the light of fear, I would set a stick to
wiggling like a creeping fox among the ferns and switch him sharply with
a hemlock tip. It was a hard lesson, but he learned it after a few days.
And before I finished the teaching, not a mouse would come to my table,
no matter how persuasively I squeaked. They would dart about in the
twilight as of yore, but the first whish of my stick sent them all back
to cover on the instant.
That was their stern yet, practical preparation for the robber horde
that would soon be prowling over my camping ground. Then a stealthy
movement among the ferns or the sweep of a shadow among the twilight
shadows would mean a very different thing from wriggling stick and
waving hemlock tip. Snap and swoop, and teeth and claws,--jump for your
life and find out afterwards. That is the rule for a wise wood mouse.
So I said good-by, and left them to take care of themselves in the
wilderness.