awful glare!--but it will pass--and meanwhile I can guess at you. You
are a mouse; a small mouse, with sharp-pointed toes, a blunted tail, and
a warm-orange coat."
"How did you know that?" said the Harvest Mouse.
"I heard you, and I felt you, and I smelt you," said Bartimæus. "You ran
up just before I put my nose out. I heard your tail flick after you. I
heard the leaves crack underneath your feet. I felt and smelt your
colour. If you lived underground like me, you'd notice things."
"Give me the sunshine," said the Harvest Mouse (its beauty doubled on
her coat). "If you could see what I can see you'd go back home."
[Illustration]
"How's that?" said Bartimæus.
"It's near the fence," the Harvest Mouse replied, "you'd better run and
look at it."
"It would take a lot to scare _me_," said Bartimæus, and puffed his
little chest out. His chest was like the mouse's back, warm orange.
"This will scare you," she said. "You strike from here towards the sun
and you can't miss it. It throws a shadow at you."
"I'm off," said Bartimæus, and straightway started burrowing.
The Harvest Mouse stood up full length, and watched his ripple fading
into distance. Then she dropped down to earth.
"That was a quite nice Mole," she said, "it really _is_ a pity."
A surface run is child's play to a Mole. He bores it almost at his
surface pace. The roof springs ready-moulded from his back, and
lengthens like a paid-out rope behind him.
The fence was reached so suddenly that Bartimæus stubbed his nose
against it. He bit and tore it, thinking it was root, then, finding it
too hard for him--it was red teak--worked ten yards back and thrust his
head and shoulders above ground.
[Illustration: THE HARVEST MOUSE STOOD UP FULL LENGTH]
The sun was low behind the fence. The shadow of it lengthened out
towards him and, in between its clefts, crept dazzling gold-red rays.
For full ten minutes Bartimæus' head swayed nodding side to side. Now
and again he twitched one hand impatiently. He fought for a clear
vision. Each time he faced the dazzling streams of light, his head fell
worsted sideways, and minutes passed before he could look up again.
At last their brilliance faded, and, somewhat to the right of him, a
stunted bush took shape.
The stem of it loomed dark in the fence shadow; the leaves were darker
still--and there was something queer about the leaves. They were too
large, too black, too solid.
The breeze could hardly stir them, and, when they stirred, it was as
though they spun.
No more could be determined certainly. He left his run bent on a closer
vision.
It was no bush at all. It was a thick-stemmed alder-branch staked in the
soil. The leaves were moles--moles like himself, or rather moles which
had been like himself. For all were dead. Their bodies dangled
pitifully, or, with poor shrivelled outstretched hands, spun as the
breeze compelled them.
It was too much for Bartimæus' nerves. He turned about and fled, crashed
luckily through his own tunnel's roof, and ran as though mole-ghosts
were at his heels.
And something ran ahead of him, and reached the thistle half a yard in
front.
[Illustration: THE HARVEST MOUSE DREW HERSELF UP INDIGNANT]
"Did you find it?" said the Harvest Mouse. She sat at her old station
nibbling.
"You beast," said Bartimæus, "you heartless little beast."
The Harvest Mouse drew herself up indignant.
"You're blinder than I thought," she said.
"It was a mean trick," muttered Bartimæus.
"It was a good turn," said the Harvest Mouse.
"Now listen, for I know this meadow end to end. It is no place for
Moles. Ask the red-coated Meadow Mouse. Ask the Pygmy Shrew. Ask any one
who really knows. Worse things than dogs come into it."
[Illustration: "WEASELS!" SAID THE MEADOW MOUSE]
"Weasels!" said the Meadow Mouse. "Oh, never wait for weasels in a run.
I really thought that you were one behind me." This to Bartimæus.
"Cats!" said the Pygmy Shrew. Vainly did Bartimæus strive to see her--a
sorrel leaf concealed her, head to tail.
"Worse than dogs. Worse than weasels. Worse than cats," said the Harvest
Mouse. "TRAPS!"
"We Harvest Mice are never trapped, and stump-tail mice are only trapped
by chance--or their own folly. I saw one once. He walked inside because
it rained in torrents. Down went the door, and he was drowned, with
cheese afloat all round him."
"Cheese is good," said the Meadow Mouse.
"Cheese is glorious," said the Pygmy Shrew.
"There you are. You'd go anywhere for cheese," said the Harvest Mouse.
"One bite--a snap behind--and then where are you?"
"I'm out in front," said the Pygmy Shrew.
"You'll try that once too often," said the Harvest Mouse.
"Now I hate cheese--the smell of it spells danger. But there are traps
and traps--and the worst traps are traps with nothing in them."
"That's so," said the Meadow Mouse.
"You can smell them, can't you?" said Bartimæus.
"You can smell them if you go slow enough," said the Harvest Mouse, "but
when do _you_ go slow? Now mark my words. It's just about your sleeping
time. You'll sleep for your full hour, then you'll wake hungry. You'll
rush full tilt until you reach your slant. You'll rush down that, you'll
rush along your gallery. _Won't_ you now?"
"P'raps," muttered Bartimæus. He had withdrawn his nose below, and sleep
was stealing over him.
"Well, don't!" said the Harvest Mouse.
"Don't!" said the Meadow Mouse.
"Don't!" said the Pygmy.
"Don't what?" said Bartimæus in his sleep.
"Don't rush!" said the Harvest Mouse. "Don't rush. Don't rush!"
* * * * *
He slept for his full hour and woke to find the Pygmy at his side. "It's
in your centre gallery," she whispered. "I've slipped right through it
twice."
"My _centre_ gallery?" shouted Bartimæus. "My _centre_ gallery? I'll
have my centre gallery clear."
He started burrowing straightway.
"Don't rush!" the Pygmy screamed behind. "Don't rush! It's death to
rush!"
And yet it was his rush that saved him.
[Illustration: "DON'T RUSH!" THE PYGMY SCREAMED BEHIND]
The crumbled earth which still lay in the bolt-hole, melted before it.
Part slipped to either side of him. Part massed before his plunging
head, and, reaching the clear downshaft, dropped. With it there dropped
a stone--a rounded half-inch stone, which danced along the gallery at
the foot, cannoned from side to side of it, spun round and pulled up
short, six inches in advance of him. His senses signalled something in
his path. His senses signalled a clear passage through it, and a clear
space beyond it. His senses urged more pace. So he crashed on. He
stubbed his hands against a ring of iron: the ring gave way: there was a
snap and two iron jaws had gripped his waist. But for the stone which
jammed against the clinch of them, he must have met his death. And death
itself had scarcely brought more torture. It was as though the half of
him sped on while half remained behind. The back wrench left him
senseless, and so the Pygmy found him. It was the pit-pat of her on his
fur, the cobweb flutter of her questionings, which roused him back to
life.
[Illustration: HIS FORTRESS, HIS OWN FORTRESS, HAD BEEN BREACHED]
"I'm done," he muttered, "done as sure as sure."
"Not you!" she answered bravely, "the trap's not closed--not half.
_Wriggle_, dear Uncle, _wriggle_!"
And Bartimæus wriggled.
He wriggled right; he wriggled left; he wriggled up; he wriggled down;
he brought his hands to bear upon the iron and with a supreme twist he
wriggled free.
Then he saw red.
He flung himself against the trap, and bit at it, and scratched at it,
and shook it with his shoulders, and heaved and strained and wrenched at
it, until it lay upturned upon the surface. He was convulsed with windy
gusts of rage: nose-tip to tail he boiled; nor did he gain composure
until the field was far behind, and he had reached the smooth-faced tube
which led to his own fortress. Hand over foot he sped the length of it,
dived down the U-shaped entrance hole, bobbed up again and climbed into
his nest.
His troubles were not over.
His fortress, his own fortress, had been breached. The nest lay open to
the day, windswept.
For a full hour he toiled repairing it, then, mole-tired, coiled to
sleep.
SOMETHING ABOUT A CHAMÆLEON
(NOVEMBER)
"''Tis green! 'tis green, Sir, I assure ye.'
'Green!' cries the other in a fury.
'Why, Sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes?'
''Twere no great loss,' the friend replies,
'For if they always serve you thus,
'You'll find them but of little use.'"
I wonder how many of you know these lines? Not so very long ago most
young people used to have to learn the poem from which they are taken,
but I don't think the poem can be quite such a favourite as it used to
be. Perhaps we are all getting to be such good naturalists that we know
it is not quite true, for, though Chamæleons change their colours in a
very wonderful way, they do not go red, white, and blue, in the way
which the poem makes out.
I think I must tell you a little story about a Chamæleon, though some of
you may perhaps have heard it before. An old lady once had a pet
Chamæleon which she was very fond of, and which her manservant, John,
used to look after. He was very fond of the Chamæleon too, and he used
to amuse himself by putting it on to different coloured things in his
room and watching it change colour. Well, one day, the old lady had a
friend to tea, and she thought she would like to show her the Chamæleon,
so she rang for John.
"John," she said, "bring in the Chamæleon."
John looked very sorry for himself. "Please ma'am," he said, "I can't."
"Can't?" said his mistress. "Why not?"
John looked still more confused. "Please, ma'am," he said, "he's gone."
"Why, how is that?" said the lady.
"Well, ma'am, I was playing with him, and I put him against my baize
apron, and he turned green."
"Well?"
"And then I put him against the red tray, ma'am, and he turned red."
"Yes, yes! Of course he would."
"And then I put him against your tartan plaid, ma'am, and--_and he just
bust hisself_."
[Illustration: YOU CAN SEE HIS EYE LOOKING BACK OVER
HIS SHOULDER IN THIS PICTURE]
I am afraid that that story is not altogether true either.
I must try to explain to you how a Chamæleon changes colour. Of course
you all know that there are black men, and brown men, and
copper-coloured men, and yellow men, and what we call white men; and you
know, too, that among white men some have much darker skins than others.
Now the colour of people depends a little on the colour of their blood,
for there is a network of tiny veins in the lower part of their skin,
but it depends even more on millions of little specks of yellowish and
brownish paint which lie in the upper part of their skin. A negro may be
as black as your hat outside, but his blood is red all the same, and he
looks black because the little specks of paint in the upper part of his
skin are very dark and hide the red blood behind them. When people
change colour it is because for one cause or another the colour of their
blood can be more plainly, or less plainly, seen; and, when this cause
is taken away, their old colour returns, for the little specks of paint
have not altered in themselves at all.
[Illustration: YOU CAN SEE HIS HANDS AND FEET WELL IN
THIS PICTURE]
In Chamæleons, however, and several other creatures, which change colour
much more than we do, and keep their changed colour for quite a long
time, the specks of paint lie in the _lower_ part of the skin, and often
there are numbers of them clustered together as if they had been pressed
down tight into little bags. These clusters of paint specks have the
power of branching out like sea anemones, and afterwards pulling
themselves together again like sea anemones when they are frightened.
When they are spread out so as to be as large as possible, the Chamæleon
is dark-coloured; and when they are drawn in so as to be as small as
possible, the Chamæleon is light coloured; and when, as is really most
usual, they are spread out in one part of his body and drawn in in
another, the Chamæleon is piebald. I expect you will be curious to know
what colour the specks of paint are, and whether they are always the
same. They are so small that one needs a powerful microscope to see
them; but, as far as we can tell, they are always brownish or reddish,
so that the greens and blues which are often to be seen in patches on a
Chamæleon have to be accounted for in some other way. It would take too
long to explain the blues and greens to you thoroughly, but I think I
can give you one little hint about them. You all know what
mother-of-pearl looks like. If you hold a piece one way it seems a dull
grey all over, but if you hold it another you see all the colours of the
rainbow, and you can even make the colours move about it if you handle
it properly. Now if the colours were paint they would not move about,
though they might not be so bright in some positions as in others, and
for the present you must be satisfied to know that a Chamæleon skin,
besides holding clusters of paint-specks which change their shape, is so
wonderfully made that it can show mother-of-pearl colours as well.
[Illustration]
A grown-up Chamæleon is usually greenish in the daytime, with brown
patches on his sides. When he goes to sleep at night he turns
cream-coloured and his patches become yellowish. A baby Chamæleon is
snowy white, and doesn't get spotted even when he is angry or excited,
as a grown-up Chamæleon always does.
Now for the Chamæleon pictures. First you must notice his eyes. He has
enormous eyeballs, but instead of having two eyelids to each, as we
have, he has one eyelid to each (it is really made up of two stuck
together), with a tiny round hole in the centre for his eye to look
through. This is queer enough, but there is something even queerer about
a Chamæleon's eyes. He can move either eyeball up or down or sideways,
but he hardly ever moves both the same way, so that he has quite the
most wonderful squint in the world, and often keeps one eye looking over
his shoulder while the other looks straight in front of him.
Next you must look at his long, skinny arms and legs, and especially at
his hands and feet. Like ourselves he has five fingers or toes on each,
but they are differently arranged from ours. You must remember, of
course, that our thumbs are really fingers. On each hand a Chamæleon has
three thumbs and two fingers, and on each foot he has two great toes and
three ordinary toes.
THE TRAIL OF NIMBLE BEASTS
(DECEMBER)
[Illustration:
Top Row Nuts gnawed by Meadow Mice
Second Row " " " Dormice
Third Row " " " Field Mice]
I am going to end the articles in this book by telling you how you may
best see for yourselves some of the queer creatures which I have
photographed, for the real beasties are far, far more interesting than
any photographs of them can be, and they are not so very difficult to
see if only you go the right way about it. I think the Winter is as good
a season as any to begin in, at any rate with the fur-folk, for there is
sure to be plenty of mud, which is a splendid thing for footprints to
show up on, and there may be a fall of snow, which will tell you more in
a day of the coming and goings of your little brothers, than you could
learn without it in a year.
If you put on your thickest boots and go out into the fields and along
the hedgerows, after a heavy snowfall, you will find thousands and
thousands of footprints. Most of these will be the footprints of birds,
but some, you will see at once, belong to four-footed creatures. I am
showing you pictures of some of the commonest of these so that you may
know them the next time you see them. I have left out Bunny-Rabbit on
purpose, because I think you will be able to find out what his curious
footprints are like for yourselves, and will remember them better that
way.
[Illustration: THE WEASEL'S TRAIL]
We will begin with the Weasel's trail in the picture on the opposite
page. You will see that there are two different looking trails showing,
but they both belong to the same weasel. The reason they look so
different is that one set are fresh and the other set are a day old.
There has been a slight thaw, and this has melted the snow so that the
oldest trail has fallen in a little. All the trails lead to a woodpile,
and I used, after the snow had all gone, to go to that woodpile in the
evening and wait for the weasel to come out, and watch him play, which
he always did for some time before he started hunting.
[Illustration: WHERE THE WEASEL MET THE MICE
The mice had made quite a beaten track from one hole to
another--this you can see at the top of the picture. The
other tracks are the weasel's, except one, which shows the
imprint of a mouse-tail]
It was quite exciting to follow that little Weasel's trail in the snow.
I came to where he had startled a moor-hen and to where he had startled
a rook, and to where he had had a splendid game chasing mice. I am
showing you a picture of this, and you will notice at once the line down
the centre of one of the tracks, which is made by Mousey's tail. Another
of the pictures shows you two mouse-tracks running to separate
mouse-holes, which I was very glad to know about, and which I don't
think I should ever have seen but for the tell-tale snow. A Rat's track
is much the same, only larger; and a Stoat's track is the same as a
Weasel's, only larger. A Hedgehog does not often come out in the snow,
but he does sometimes and leaves a very smudgy track behind him, for he
drags his fur along the ground.
[Illustration: WHERE THE WEASEL MET THE ROOK
You can see where the Rook's wing hit the snow]
Snow shows one much more than mud, but, unless it is of just the right
softness the prints in it are apt to be splodgy, and I don't think you
ever get so perfect a track in snow as you sometimes do in mud. The
pictures of the Vixen's and the Otter's footprints will show you what I
mean. A Vixen's footprints are smaller than a Fox's, and a Fox's
footprints are smaller than most people think, indeed a Fox is a smaller
animal than most people think. I have a little wire-haired terrier whose
footprints are much larger than those of a Vixen. At the same time it is
not very easy to distinguish a Fox's track from that of a small dog.
Generally a Dog's claws make their mark as well as the pads, and this
does not often happen with the Fox; but I think a better way of telling
the difference is to remember that a Fox's pads are more oval-shaped
than a Dog's. You will always, I think, be able to tell an Otter's
footprints (some people call them the Otter's seal) by their size, and
by their leading to or from the water. Usually the claws can be clearly
traced and sometimes the webbing of the feet as well. I have never seen
clean-cut Badger's footprints--all I have met with have been very broad
and splodgy, more smears than patterns--and I have never seen a Marten's
trail at all.
[Illustration: TWO MOUSE TRAILS LEADING TO HOLES IN THE
SNOW]
[Illustration: THE FOX'S FOOTPRINTS]
Footprints tell us a good deal of what is going on about us, and so do
"runs" in the grass, and "runs" in the hedges. But, of course, there are
other things to be looked for. Often one finds the remains of beasties'
meals, nuts for instance. Nuts with clean-cut round holes in them have
been gnawed by Dormice, nuts with jagged holes by Red Meadow Mice and
Wood Mice, nuts split clean in half most likely by Squirrels. Otters
leave half-eaten fish about sometimes, and scattered broken eggshells
tell you where Stoats have been running the hedgerow. If you notice
where you find these things and keep your eyes open, you are sure in
time to see what you are looking for.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: And the last thing that Winnie remembers was
the Great Green Grasshopper's Wife hurrying the little
Skipjacks off to bed.]
THE GREAT GREEN GRASSHOPPER'S BAND
(CHRISTMAS DAY)
[Illustration]
"I beg your pardon!" said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife.
"I think I ought to beg yours," said Winnie politely.
Perhaps, however, you would like me to begin at the very beginning. Very
well, then; but you must remember that, for most of it, I can only tell
you what Winnie told me. It all seems to have happened between Christmas
Eve and Christmas Day. On Christmas Eve, our Cricket, who lives in the
kitchen behind the hot-water pipes, had started chirruping as usual, and
I had gone into the library, and hunted out an old, old Christmas book
and started reading to my small friends a story which began with a
cricket singing against a tea-kettle. Then we had had a snapdragon, and
then the waits had come round, so everything had been as Christmassy as
ever it could be. Just as the waits finished Winnie had got into bed and
snuggled herself up. All this I can vouch for myself, for I was there
all the time, and I can remember how good the snapdragon was, though I
did not eat quite so many raisins as one little girl. However, as she
said afterwards, "Even if I did eat thirty, Father, it was quite worth
it."
So much for the true part of the tale--now for the magic. Winnie tells
me that she never went to sleep at all! The waits and the cricket and
the snapdragon and the kettle were all mixed up in her head, and the
snapdragon had turned hungry and was trying to snap up the waits, and
the kettle was puffing like a little traction engine, and in between the
puffs there was a sad little chirrupy sound which she thought must be
the cricket. It seemed only kind then that she should slip out of bed,
listen on the landing, and creep down to the kitchen to see how the
cricket was getting on. She found him sitting on the hearthstone and
watching the people in the fire going to church.
[Illustration: WINNIE TELLS ME THAT SHE NEVER WENT TO
SLEEP AT ALL!]
"I can't attend to you now," he said, "I'm just going out."
Winnie had half expected him to speak, but she was a little frightened
all the same, and a little curious too.
"Do take me with you," she said. "Where are you going?"
"Where am I going?" said the Cricket in a surprised tone. "Why, it's
Christmas Eve!"
"Yes, isn't it lovely!" said Winnie; "and to-morrow there'll be
presents. But where are you going?"
"I'm going to be a wait, of course," said the Cricket. "I've been
practising all the evening. Listen!"
He ducked his head and lifted up his wings, and a chirrup fluttered out
of them and ran all round the dresser. It _was_ a chirrup! It wriggled
in between the plates and dived into the soup-tureen, and climbed the
tea-cup handles, and danced upon the saucers, until the sour deal
boards, which had had all the softness scrubbed out of them (and were
cross-grained to begin with), felt little thrills of pleasure running
down their backs. Then it climbed up the wall and rattled the
dish-covers, and at last it died away with a little squeak inside the
coffee-pot.
"What do you think of that?" said the Cricket triumphantly.
"It's beautiful," said Winnie; "but where are you going?"
"You'll see presently," said the Cricket; "and I wish you wouldn't
chatter so. You nearly made me forget him."
[Illustration: THE CRICKET WAS SITTING ON THE
HEARTHSTONE WATCHING THE PEOPLE IN THE FIRE GOING TO
CHURCH]
"Forget who?" said Winnie.
"Our drummer," said the Cricket. "Keep still--I heard him a minute ago."
There was a long pause--so long that Winnie almost screamed, for there
was nothing but the clock-tick to listen to.
Then something joined the clock-tick--_One-two-three-four, pit-tip,
tip-pit, one-two-three-four, pat-tap, tap-pat_ (just like soldiers a
long way off, as Winnie explained), and presently the drummer himself
appeared. He was a very small, squat, round-shouldered beetle, and he
came out of a hole in the beam which ran across the ceiling.
[Illustration: THE PAIR OF THEM DROPPED ... ON TO THE
EDGE OF THE KITCHEN TABLE]
"What a nuisance it all is!" he yawned. "I was just going off to sleep
when I heard you. Is there no one else who can drum?"
"No one who can drum like you," said the Cricket, which is far the best
way to answer these questions.
"Very well," said the Beetle, "but my wife must come too," and the pair
of them dropped with two little flops on to the edge of the kitchen
table. Then the clock chimed in--_one-two-three-four_, right away up to
eleven.
"Shall _I_ come too?" said a mean little oily voice from under the
coal-scuttle. Winnie could just see the Cockroach's whiskers making
quivery passes in the air, and she sat down and drew her nightie round
her feet as tight as ever she could. She was quite relieved to hear the
Cricket's answer.