Day after day we may walk through the woods and fields, using our eyes as
best we can, searching out every moving thing, following up every
sound,--and yet we touch only the coarsest, perceive only the grossest of
the life about us. Tramp the same way after a fall of snow and we are
astonished at the evidences of life of which we knew nothing. Everywhere,
in and out among the reed stems, around the tree-trunks, and in wavy lines
and spirals all about, runs the delicate tracery of the meadow mice
trails. No leapers these, as are the white-footed and jumping mice, but
short-legged and stout of body. Yet with all their lack of size and
swiftness, they are untiring little folk, and probably make long journeys
from their individual nests.
As far north as Canada and west to the Plains the meadow or field mice are
found, and everywhere they seem to be happy and content. Most of all,
however, they enjoy the vicinity of water, and a damp, half-marshy meadow
is a paradise for them. No wonder their worst enemies are known as marsh
hawks and marsh owls; these hunters of the daylight and the night well
know where the meadow mice love to play.
These mice are resourceful little beings and when danger threatens they
will take to the water without hesitation; and when the muskrat has gone
the way of the beaver, our ditches and ponds will not be completely
deserted, for the little meadow mice will swim and dive for many years
thereafter.
Not only in the meadows about our inland streams, but within sound of the
breakers on the seashore, these vigorous bits of fur find bountiful
living, and it is said that the mice folk inhabiting these low salt
marshes always know in some mysterious way when a disastrous high tide is
due, and flee in time, so that when the remorseless ripples lap higher and
higher over the wide stretches of salt grass, not a mouse will be drowned.
By some delicate means of perception all have been notified in time, and
these, among the least of Nature's children, have run and scurried along
their grassy paths to find safety on the higher ground.
These paths seem an invention of the meadow mice, and, affording them a
unique escape from danger, they doubtless, in a great measure, account for
the extreme abundance of the little creatures. When a deer mouse or a
chipmunk emerges from its hollow log or underground tunnel, it must take
its chances in open air. It may dart along close to the ground or amid an
impenetrable tangle of briers, but still it is always visible from above.
On the other hand, a mole, pushing blindly along beneath the sod, fears no
danger from the hawk soaring high overhead.
The method of the meadow mice is between these two: its stratum of active
life is above the mole and beneath the chipmunk. Scores of sharp little
incisor teeth are forever busy gnawing and cutting away the tender grass
and sprouting weeds in long meandering paths or trails through the
meadows. As these paths are only a mouse-breadth in width, the grasses at
each side lean inward, forming a perfect shelter of interlocking stems
overhead. Two purposes are thus fulfilled: a delicious succulent food is
obtained and a way of escape is kept ever open. These lines intersect and
cross at every conceivable angle, and as the meadow mice clan are ever
friendly toward one another, any particular mouse seems at liberty to
traverse these miles of mouse alleys.
In winter, when the snow lies deep upon the ground, these same mice drive
tunnels beneath it, leading to all their favourite feeding grounds, to all
the heavy-seeded weed heads, with which the bounty of Nature supplies
them. But at night these tunnels are deserted and boldly out upon the snow
come the meadow mice, chasing each other over its gleaming surface,
nibbling the toothsome seeds, dodging, or trying to dodge, the
owl-shadows; living the keen, strenuous, short, but happy, life which is
that of all the wild meadow folk.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
An' weary winter comin' fast,
An' cosey here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell.
Robert Burns.