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"WEE TIM'ROUS BEASTIES"
[Illustration: THE BLACK RAT SAT BACK ON HIS HAUNCHES, PRICKED UP HIS
EARS, AND LISTENED.]
"WEE TIM'ROUS BEASTIES"
STUDIES OF ANIMAL LIFE AND
CHARACTER
BY
DOUGLAS ENGLISH
FELLOW OF THE ROYAL PHOTOGRAPHIC SOCIETY OF GREAT BRITAIN
AUTHOR OF "PHOTOGRAPHY FOR NATURALISTS"
SECOND EDITION
_WITH ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY ILLUSTRATIONS FROM_
_HIS PHOTOGRAPHS OF LIVING CREATURES_
LONDON
S. H. BOUSFIELD & CO., LTD
12, PORTUGAL STREET, W.C.
TO
MY DEAR CHILDREN
BRYAN AND WINNIE
PREFACE
For permission to include in this volume "The Awakening of the Dormouse,"
"The Purple Emperor," "The Harvest Mouse," and "The Trivial Fortunes of
Molge," I have to thank the Editor of the _Girl's Realm_, and for "The
Story of a Field Vole," and "The Passing of the Black Rat," I am indebted
to the courtesy of the Editor of _Pearson's Magazine_.
DOUGLAS ENGLISH.
HAWLEY,
DARTFORD,
_September, 1903_.
CONTENTS
MUS RIDICULUS 1
THE STORY OF A FIELD VOLE 28
THE APOLOGY OF THE HOUSE SPARROW 48
THE AWAKENING OF THE DORMOUSE 66
THE PURPLE EMPEROR 88
THE HARVEST MOUSE 118
THE TRIVIAL FORTUNES OF MOLGE 142
THE PASSING OF THE BLACK RAT 171
THE FOX'S TRICKS ARE MANY; ONE IS ENOUGH FOR THE URCHIN 192
[Illustration]
"WEE TIM'ROUS BEASTIES"
MUS RIDICULUS
Mus ridiculus! The taunt had been flung at him by a stout field-vole, and,
by reason of its novelty as well as of its intrinsic impertinence, had
sunk deep into his memory. He had felt at the time that "Wee sleekit,
cowrin', tim'rous beastie" was but a poor rejoinder. But he knew no Latin
and chose what was next in obscurity. Besides, he was a young mouse then,
and breathless with excitement.
The scene rose vividly before him--the moon shining grimly overhead, and
the mouse-folk stealing from the half-threshed stack across two fields
into the farmstead.
Since that night he had never entered a wheat-stack, for fear of the
leaving of it. For there are some things which, from a mouse standpoint,
will not bear repetition.
There had been a grey, slanting ghost-swish above, and his brother had
vanished skywards from within an inch of his side. He had turned to stone
before two ice-cold eyes, and realized the honest yard of snake behind
them. A stoat had passed him with its mouth too full to snap--and all
within two fields.
[Illustration: MUS RIDICULUS!]
Mus ridiculus! The vole was not so far wrong after all, for could
anything, whose intelligence was otherwise than laughable, be in his
present plight? In front of him were three horizontal wires, above him
were nine more, on either side an upright wooden wall, behind him a
slanting one, whose lower extremity nipped his tail. On the floor lay
innumerable crumbs of evil-smelling cheese.
When the door of the trap had clicked behind him, he had naturally been
startled. His fright, however, was due not so much to his surroundings--he
was used to close quarters--as to the forcible restriction of his tail.
Still, the cheese was within easy reach, and he had determined to enjoy
it. Indeed, he ate his full. Now, cheese on an empty mouse stomach acts
as an intoxicant. He had fallen into a drowsy slumber, crouched in a back
corner of the trap, and so he slept for an hour.
His awakening was gradual, but rude. It was due to a steadily increasing
discomfort in his tail. It was not the first time, however, that he had
realized that a long, tapering tail has its disadvantages as well as its
uses. As a controllable balancing-pole, there is probably nothing to equal
it. As a parachute, it serves its purpose in a precipitate leap. As a
decoy, it frequently disturbs the enemy's aim. But, when once it is firmly
jammed, it is liable to congestion, and this is what awoke the mouse.
At first he was inclined to treat the matter lightly. He had been caught
by the tail often enough, after all. He tried the normal methods of
release. Swinging round on his haunches, he caught the offending member
between his two fore-paws, so as to ease it out by gentle side-shifts.
Then he brought his tongue into play as a lubricant. Then he simply
pulled. By this time he was fairly awake and could feel.
It was unfortunate that a door banged above him, for, mouse-like, he leapt
forward with all his leaping strength. The leap freed him, but at a price,
and the price was his tail, or, rather, all that made a tail worth having.
For the first half-inch it proceeded soundly enough, a series of neat,
over-lapping, down-covered scale-rings, then, for the next
two-and-three-quarter inches it presented all the naked hideousness of an
X-ray photograph. It was not so much the pain he minded as the indignity,
and he surveyed himself with gloomy disgust. There was, however, just a
grain of consolation. With an imprisoned tail, escape was impossible. Now
that he was free to move, there was surely a chance of squeezing through
those bars. He must take heart and gird himself for the struggle. No
mouse, however, if he can help it, enters upon a serious undertaking
ungroomed. So he sat back on his hind legs and commenced an elaborate
toilet. First he licked his tiny hands and worked them like lightning
across and down his face. This he continued for a full minute, until his
whiskers bristled like tiny needles, without a speck of dust throughout
their length. Then he combed the matted fur of his waistcoat with his
teeth, and smoothed and polished it until every hair was a gleaming strand
of silk. Finally he turned his attention to his back and sides, twisting
his body cat-fashion to reach the remoter portions of himself.
Once, in the middle of his operations, he stopped with a jerk and sat up
motionless, save for a tremulous quiver of his muzzle. There was certainly
something moving close at hand. Long before the faint vibration had reached
his ears, his whiskers had caught it and flashed their danger-signal to his
brain. It was only a cockroach, however. As it came in sight, he snapped at
it viciously through the bars, and squeaked at its precipitate flight. Not
that he grudged it the cheese crumbs, but his nerves were on edge, and it
had frightened him.
[Illustration: IT WAS ONLY A COCKROACH, HOWEVER.]
Body, head, and feet alike, were sleek and resplendent before he caught a
glimpse of his disreputable tail. He was dubious as to whether polishing
would have any beneficial effect on its appearance; but the stump, at any
rate, must be healed, and to do this he set to work with nature's remedy.
Taking the stripped portion in his fore-paws--for, to his astonishment, he
found that he could not move it otherwise--he pulled it gently between his
hind legs up to his mouth. It parted like a pack-thread. Somehow he felt
indifferent. A rigid, lifeless tail was little use, after all. He was
bound to lose it sooner or later, and he was too old to care what the
other mice might think. Besides, as the father of a hundred and fifty, he
was surely entitled to set the fashion. He licked the stump until it felt
easy, shook himself once or twice, gave his whiskers a final polish, and
prepared to walk out.
He felt sleek enough to squeeze through anything--confident, too, though
just a trifle thirsty. It must have been the cheese, for the hot taste
still lingered in his mouth, and he loathed the sight of the remaining
fragments. He flicked them into a corner and carefully surveyed his
position. The bars stretched at even intervals, above and in front. He
tried each one separately and found that, with one exception, they were
fixed and immovable. The exception was number three from the front above
him. It was easily distinguishable from the others, for a curved wire
swung free from its centre. When he gripped his fore-paws round it, he
felt it twist in its sockets. Why did that curved wire rattle about when
he touched it? Those from which he had stolen so many dainty morsels in
the past had seemed fixtures. Perhaps he had gone too recklessly to work
this time. He had certainly been extremely hungry. Anyhow, the bar from
which it hung was loose--he would work that clear of the wood in no time,
and so gain freedom.
[Illustration: HE TRIED EACH BAR SEPARATELY.]
He raised himself on his hind legs and commenced gnawing vigorously at the
socket-hole. The position was a terribly strained one, and time after time
his teeth slipped and met with a scrunching jar upon the metal.
Then he leaped up and swung head downwards, gripping the bars with all
four feet. In this position he could at least nip the cross-piece, and
worry it with his teeth. Every muscle of his small body was strained to
the utmost. The bar rattled in its sockets, slipped round once or twice,
bent the merest trifle, and--jammed immovable as the others. He felt that
he was wasting his strength, and dropped sullenly to the floor. He had
never been so thirsty in his life; yet, true to his instincts, he started
to wash his face and smooth his draggled fur afresh.
This time it was a harder task, for his mouth was parched and tender, and
his fingers ached with exertion. Still, he managed to put his whiskers
into proper trim, and pulled himself together, with every sense alert for
the air-current which should betray some outlet.
He explored every cranny of his prison, slowly and calmly at first, then
with increasing anxiety and speed. By using all his strength, he raised
the door a tail's-breadth. For fully an hour he struggled at this chance
of exit. Five times he forced his nose under the sharp wood edge, and
sobbed as it snapped back, mocking at his failing strength.
It was not until he was sick with weariness, and mad with thirst, that
he lost his head. Then he flung himself recklessly in every direction,
bruising his poor body against the unyielding bars, desperate, grimy,
pitiable.
Nature intervened at length, and lulled him into a semi-conscious,
dream-bound indifference.
* * * * *
There was something to be said for the stack-life, after all. All good
stacks come to an end, but, while they last, it is honey for the
mouse-folk. Picture to yourself the basement of a wheat-stack, occupied
by a flourishing mouse colony--five hundred tiny souls, super-abundance
of food, and no thought for the morrow. The companions of his youth stole
into his dream with all the vividness of early impressions. The
long-tailed wood-mouse--a handsome fellow this, with great black liquid
eyes, and weasel colouring; the harvest-mouse, that Liliputian rustic to
whose deft fingers all good mouse-nests are indiscriminately assigned; the
freaks, white, black, and nondescript; and, finally, the great brown rats.
[Illustration: THE HARVEST MOUSE, THAT LILIPUTIAN RUSTIC.]
In the presence of the latter he had always felt nervous, but he had
recognized their usefulness. Had he not seen four of them combine and rout
a weasel? In the midst of plenty they were harmless enough, at least they
had never molested him. Moreover, they were the main tunnel builders, and
it was refreshing for a mouse, who had wormed his way through two yards of
powdery corn-husks, to find a run where he could stretch his limbs and
scamper.
And what wild scampers those were! For free, unimpeded, safe racing, there
is nothing to touch the rat tunnels of a wheat-stack.
He was a fortnight old when he first ventured out into the unknown. He
remembered but little of his earliest sensations, only the vague comfort
of nestling with six companions under his mother's soft fur, and the vague
discomfort caused by her occasional absence. But that first journey was
unforgetable. The maze of winding burrows, the myriad eyes peering at him
through the darkness, the ceaseless patter of tiny feet, before, behind,
and on all sides, the great brown rat sniffing dubiously as it passed, the
jostling, the chattering, the squeaking. He had been a proud mouse when he
had returned, and told his faint-hearted brothers what the great world
outside was really like.
* * * * *
It was a bluebottle that roused him. It floundered heavily against the
bars, crawled through, and brushed across his nose. No! he was not dead
yet, but the bluebottle soon would be. He leaped at it, and, to his
amazement, fell short and missed. Yesterday, he had cleared a flight of
stairs with one light-hearted bound, and left a bewildered kitten at the
top. He sank back heart-broken, and the bluebottle circled solemnly
overhead, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.
[Illustration: AND LEFT A BEWILDERED KITTEN AT THE TOP.]
* * * * *
Buz-z-z-z! whir-r-r! He was back in the wheat-stack once more, listening
to the dull humming of ten thousand bluebottles. From without came the
sound of heavy tramping feet, whirring wheels, rough, human voices. The
wheaten mass rocked and vibrated above his head: half the runs were
choked, and he, with twenty more of his kind, sat cowering in a corner of
the foundations. Nearer and nearer came the voices, for the thrashing had
commenced at sunrise, and now, as evening approached, three-parts of the
stack were gone. Only once had he ventured to the edge of his shelter and
looked out. A pair of grinning jaws crashed against the outlet, and
snapped within a hair's-breadth of his nose. It was his first sight of
a terrier, and he realized that to break cover was certain death.
Death, indeed, was very busy outside. Every minute a dog's yelp, the shout
of its master, and the dull thud of a bludgeon, told plainly enough the
tale of some unhappy rodent's dash for freedom.
And so the sun went down blood-red.
It was midnight, however, before the remnant gathered themselves together,
and agreed on flight. The trek was headed by an old brown rat. Of the
dozen that survived it, he was the only mouse.
* * * * *
Better, after all, to have never finished the journey, and, yet, why
should he complain? He had lived longer than most, and had had his supreme
moments.
* * * * *
"'The mouse behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd.'"
He had been dozing behind the wainscot in the dining-room, and the squeak
of irritation had been due to a passing spider. The apt quotation reached
him through the panel.
"_Squeaked_, surely?" The correction came in a soft, woman's voice.
"No, _shrieked_; I am certain of it."
"Squeaked, I think; a mouse doesn't shriek."
[Illustration: HE RUSHED OFF TO TELL HER BEFORE HE SHOULD FORGET IT.]
"Ah, but this mouse had a poetic licence."
"Look it up."
"I will."
The book was taken from within two inches of where he sat.
"'Shrieked' it is."
It amused him vastly, for he had never shrieked in his life.
"Do you like mice?" It was the first voice speaking again.
"Hate them--smelly little things."
[Illustration: SHE WAS A VERITABLE QUEEN AMONG MICE.]
"Do you remember that thing of Suckling's?--
"'Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, ran in and out,
As if they feared the light.'
"Pretty, rather, I think."
"What's pretty?"
"Oh, I don't know--your feet, I suppose."
[Illustration: HE HAD FOUGHT FIVE SUITORS TO WIN HER.]
He felt disappointed. Surely it was the feet that profited by the
comparison. Still, he knew that the whole conversation would amuse his
wife, and rushed off to tell her before he should forget it.
He had been rather anxious about her of late. Only the previous evening he
had peeped from behind the bookcase and seen her backed into a corner, and
defying six feet of solid humanity with brandished paws. Behaviour of this
kind was courageous, but unmouselike, and would assuredly get her into
difficulties.
He found her in the midst of tiny wisps of paper, thread, and wool, that
had been her chief concern for three days past.
"Did you ever _shriek_?" he cried.
"No," she replied; "but I shall do if you can't be less clumsy."
He looked at her in amazement. Then the truth burst upon him. He was the
father of seven, and was awkwardly seated upon three of them.
* * * * *
She had been a good wife to him, this first. He had three especial
favourites, the first, the third, and the sixth, but it was unquestionably
the first that he had been the most proud of. She was a veritable queen
among mice, and he had fought five suitors to win her. The madness of it!
He had gone from basement to ceiling, challenging all and sundry who
ventured to dispute his claim. But she was worth it. All he knew of
house-life he had learnt from her. It was she who showed him the way to
rob a trap. First she would sit upon the spring-door and satisfy herself
that it was not lightly set, then with flattened body she would steal
beneath it, and push, instead of pull, the bait.
[Illustration: FIRST SHE WOULD SIT UPON THE SPRING-DOOR.]
Under her guidance he learnt every nook and corner of the rambling house,
the swiftest ways from garret to cellar, the entrances and exits of the
runs, their sudden drops and windings, and all the thousand intricacies of
architecture that make life under one roof possible for both mice and men.
[Illustration: THEN WITH FLATTENED BODY SHE WOULD STEAL BENEATH IT.]
He learnt, moreover, from her that fighting the cat was merely a game of
patience, and that even the human male has a warm corner in his heart for
the mouse that is bold enough to approach him.
And yet she fell a victim to the cat herself. It was out of pure bravado
that she crossed its tail to prove that a cat with its eye on a mouse-hole
has no eye for anything else.
He, too, had been in the cat's clutches once. It was hardly to his
discredit. He had been with his wife at the time, had heard the sneaking
footfall, and was in the act of pushing her into shelter when he felt
himself pinned down.
The moment the cat's paw touched him he had relaxed every muscle and
feigned death. The ruse succeeded. The cat loosened her hold, and he had
a two-yard run before he was pinned afresh.
Then he was flung into the air and caught like a ball, dashed aside and
caught again, and swung, and twirled, and shaken, until he was too dazed
to move a limb, and lay, a yard away from his tormentor, staring stupidly
into her eyes. Yet he had received no mortal hurt.
He owed his rescue to a human hand, and the hand smoothed his poor
draggled coat, and pushed him inside his hole, while the cat complacently
purred. For two long hours he lay just within the entrance, exhausted, but
unattainable, and for two long hours the cat sat waiting for his
reappearance. Whenever he raised his head their eyes met.
* * * * *
Their eyes were meeting now. Consciousness returned to him for a few
seconds, and in those few seconds his blood turned to water, even as
before. She sat on the window-ledge outside. Her muzzle was pressed
against the glass, and he could trace the snarling curl of the lips,
which just revealed her teeth. He cowered back as far as possible.
Sooner or later she would find her way inside--and then?
* * * * *
He had only once been actually caught, but he was very near it in the
corn-bin. Now, a house-mouse has no right whatever in the corn-bin, and
yet it was a point of honour with the house-mice that they should visit
their stable relations at least once a week. It was the love of
excitement, more than the love of corn, which impelled them.
[Illustration: WAS IN THE ACT OF PUSHING HER INTO SHELTER.]
Crossing the yard was always risky work, whether one skirted the shadowy
side of the wall, or made a bold dash in the open. Then the simplest way
into the storeroom was through a hole in the corner of the window-sill,
and to reach this meant a clamber along a half-inch ledge, with the
certainty of falling into the water-tank if one missed one's hold.
Finally, the stable itself was the training-ground for the household
kittens.
[Illustration: THEIR STABLE RELATIONS.]
It was not a kitten, however, but a dog that so nearly terminated his
career. There must have been thirty or forty mice in the corn-bin at the
time. The lid was suddenly flung open, their eyes were dazzled by the
blaze of an upheld lantern, and, before they could realize their
position, a terrier was amongst them, dealing out scientific murder.
Fortunately, he, with one companion, had been where the corn was highest,
and a frantic scramble had landed them over the edge of the bin and down
behind it. But, from where he lay, he could hear plainly enough what was
happening. The mice were leaping in every direction against the polished
sides of the bin, missing their footing and falling back into the
terrier's mouth. His final recollection was of five and twenty small
corpses laid out in a neat row upon the stable floor. Perhaps half a
dozen of his companions had escaped by burrowing in the corn.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A CLAMBER ALONG A HALF-INCH LEDGE.]
[Illustration: A FRANTIC SCRAMBLE LANDED THEM OVER THE EDGE OF THE BIN.]
He awoke with a start this time, for the trap had suddenly turned up on
end. The door was standing open, but a shadow hung across it, and the
mouse felt the shadow--_and shrieked_.
[Illustration]
THE STORY OF A FIELD VOLE
His earliest recollections were somewhat confused, nor is this to be
wondered at, for he was one of eight, and in the same hole lived another
family of seven, fifteen tiny creatures in all, of the same age and
outwardly indistinguishable.
Under such circumstances it is difficult to retain one's individuality,
let alone one's impressions. Moreover some little time had elapsed before
he really _saw_ his companions. Not that he was long actually blind,--that
is the prerogative of the carnivora, but his career commenced some feet
below the surface of the earth, at the termination of a long winding
burrow, and a full fortnight had elapsed before he eluded his mother's
vigilance, and, after a clumsy scrambling ascent, beheld for the first
time the tall green grasses which shrouded the entrance, and the blue of
the sky peeping down irregularly between them.
[Illustration: HIS FIRST SENSATION WAS ONE OF EXTREME COLD.]
His first sensation was one of extreme cold, for his fur was at this time
little better than down; Nature's brilliant colouring only dazzled and
frightened him; his tender skin shrank from contact with the sharp-edged
herbage, and, after a short blundering excursion, he was glad to scuttle
down below once more.
His next effort was more successful. His fur had thickened, and, like all
good voles, he had the sense to defer his exit until the evening. Still,
even when he had reached the mature age of three weeks, the murky, warm
atmosphere below ground proved more seductive than any other, and he spent
the greater portion of his existence there, sleeping, nest-making, or
fighting with a companion over food.
The making and re-making of the nest was learnt on kindergarten principles.
At first he was employed in softening slender grass filaments, by dragging
them through his teeth; then he learnt to intertwine them, and sat in the
middle of an ever-growing sphere of delicate network; finally, like his
mother, he tackled large, stiff grass stems, biting them into short
lengths, and splitting them, or letting them split themselves, lengthways.
By the time he was a month old, he was an expert nest-builder, and, given
the material, could build a complete nest for two inside the hour.
On the score of meat and drink he had no anxieties. A marshy meadow had
been selected by his forbears for colonization. The burrow terminated
outwardly on the bank of a half-dried watercourse, and, within its
recesses, was all manner of vegetable store--seeds, bulbs, leaves, clover,
and herbs in fascinating variety and profusion. Nor was there any lack of
greener food. Bog-grass surrounded the burrow, and the most succulent
portion of bog-grass is the most easily attained.
He soon learned to reach up on his hind legs and gnaw the standing plant.
The management of a dry and slippery corn-ear at first presented some
difficulty, but, as his muscles strengthened, he found himself able to
sit up on his haunches and hold it squirrel-fashion in his fore-paws,
nibbling, to begin with, at the pointed end, which is the best way into
most things. Once, as the family were grubbing together, a nut turned up
at the back of the pile. After a desperate conflict, he secured it, but,
the tough shell was too much for him. It takes a red vole's training to
reduce a nut.
[Illustration: NIBBLING, TO BEGIN WITH, AT THE POINTED END.]
So the weeks passed on, and he grew thicker and sturdier and more furry.
He was never graceful, like his cousin the red vole, for his face was
blunted, his eyes small, and his tail ridiculously insignificant. Nor
could he cover the ground with the easy swinging jump that makes one
suspect relationship between the red vole and the wood-mouse. Still for a
common, vulgar, agrarian vole, he was passable enough, and could hold his
own, tooth and nail, with his nest-fellows.
He was five weeks old before he commenced to go out foraging on his own
account. He never ventured far, but contented himself with timorous
excursions along the banks of the watercourse, crouching amid the
undergrowth, and ready, at the first scent of danger, to glide with
flattened body back to cover. Sometimes he accompanied his mother on her
visits to distant portions of the colony, but the old vole more often left
her octet behind, and then he would lie huddled up with his companions,
waiting for the squelching sound of her footsteps, as she returned across
the mud, and quarrelling in anticipation of what she would bring.
[Illustration: READY, AT THE FIRST SCENT OF DANGER, TO GLIDE BACK TO
COVER.]
Now and again a different sound would reach the hollow--the dragging tail
swish of the water-vole, or the fussy scramble of some belated moorhen.
These he soon learned to distinguish from the stealthy, broken, hanging
footfall of the beast of prey. When that was heard, both he and his
companions would crouch together in the darkest corner of the burrow and
hold their breath.
Once such a sound stopped abruptly and close at hand; a faint foetid
odour permeated from without, and he felt instinctively that the enemy was
at the gate. The danger passed, but that night the old vole failed to
return.
The night following the same sound came, and ceased. This time, however,
the silence was succeeded by a fierce scratching, and he soon realized
that the entrance to the nest was blocked, and that something, bigger and
stronger than he yet knew of, was working its way nearer and nearer. There
was a clatter of falling stones and earth, and the "something" was
whirling in their midst. Wild confusion followed. The whole interior of
the nest seemed occupied by a swift-circling, curling, sinuous form.
Small as he was, and crouching as only a vole can crouch, there was no
escape from contact with it. Three times the hot loathsome breath hissed
over him, as he lay flattened to the ground. Then, as the lithe body swept
round, he was flung aside, and, by a lucky chance, found himself opposite
the outlet. In an agony of terror he scrambled up the shaft, and concealed
himself in an adjoining grass-tuft. He was sick, and dizzy, and bruised
all over.
Scarcely had he recovered sufficient coolness to look about him, when the
object of his terror emerged with dripping jaws, and he was enabled, for
the first time, to form an opinion of the arch-enemy of vole-kind.
To avoid the bird of prey, a vole need only remain below the surface; to
avoid the little gentleman in black, he need only rise above it; but from
the grim pursuit of the weasel, bent on meal or murder, there is no
escape.
Terror-stricken as he was, he could hardly help admiring the easy supple
swagger of the creature's movements. She held her broad browed head erect,
the bristles pointed like needles from her blood-streaked muzzle, grit and
pluck could be traced in her every movement, and, in her eyes, universal
defiance.
Down the dark watercourse she went, twisting her lithe chestnut body
S-wise in and out of the coarse grass-clumps. A frog leaped before her. In
a flash she had flung herself upon it, her white teeth clicked together in
its brain, and she sauntered slowly out of sight, bearing her latest
victim in her mouth. It was hideous. To eat vegetables was natural enough,
but to eat living, quivering flesh! A sickening faintness crept over him,
and it was full an hour before he could leave his shelter.
Very cautiously he retraced his steps to the familiar entrance, and
stopped to listen. A flood of moonlight burst through the clouds, and his
trembling shadow danced ink-black before him. He was a clear mark for
every kind of foe, yet he still paused irresolute. It was too horribly
silent below. A clumsy whirring beetle alighted at his feet and stumbled
heavily down the hole. Another followed. He turned and fled, blindly,
recklessly, anywhere to escape that exhaling reek of murder.
[Illustration: HE STILL PAUSED IRRESOLUTE.]
Away from the watercourse the grasses grew shorter and more slender. It
was easy, but risky going. Small pyramids of soil dotted the ground in
different directions, some massed together almost in circles, others at
wider intervals. At the edge of one of them he stopped and commenced idly
burrowing with his fore feet. For a few inches the light, crumbling earth
yielded easily to his efforts. Then the floor seemed to subside beneath
him, and he found a shelter ready made. Two narrow rough-hewn tunnels led
from beneath the centre of the heap. He rested for a few minutes, then
started to explore one of them.
It could hardly be described as a burrow, for, at intervals, it was half
choked with earth-falls, and he had to work his way through them. In
direction it was fairly straight. After a few yards progress he found its
termination. It opened on a larger tunnel running at right angles to
itself.
The sides of this latter were smooth and polished, smoother even than
those of the approach to the old home. It was wide enough for two voles to
run abreast in. The straggling grass-roots which hung overhead proved it
of trifling depth. Indeed, the roof was very thin, in places hardly solid.
Through these the moonlight seemed to filter down, forming dull bluish
patches on the floor.
From the main road passages branched out at intervals. He turned into one
of them. The sides were rough and crumbling, and it came abruptly to an
end. He soon retraced his steps, but paused when he had regained the
meeting of the ways. Something was approaching along the main tunnel. He
took the wisest course, and crouched within the shelter of the side
gallery. A crimson pointed snout, a huge paddling foot, and a dark
shapeless mass passed in quick succession before his eyes, and vanished
in the darkness.
As it swept by, the foot caught the crumbling edge of his retreat,
covering him with a shower of light mould. For the second time he
experienced the sickening, paralyzing agony of fear. This was succeeded by
an irresistible impulse to break cover. He sprang into the main shaft once
more, determined to take advantage of the first outlet. A shadowy blue
glimmer shone before him, and he quickened his pace towards it. Suddenly
the light was extinguished, the walls of the tunnel seemed to cave in
around him, in front of him he heard a dull, choking gasp, and he found
his nose in contact with a warm, palpitating velvet body.
This time his nerve failed him completely, and he lay absolutely
motionless, conscious, with only a dull indifference, that death stared
him in the face. But death seemed slow in coming, and, as he lay, his
indifference changed to a fierce longing, first for a speedy end of it
all, then for life at any price. Slowly and with difficulty he lifted his
head; the dark mass lay silent alongside of him, and the faint movements
had ceased. He could trace the creature's hind foot, it was rigid and
cold. Then the truth burst upon him. He had nothing to fear--the owner
of the foot was dead.
Still, he could scarcely move his limbs, for the soil lay thick and heavy
around him. After a prolonged effort he disengaged his fore feet, and
started to scratch himself free. On one side of him lay the dead body; he
worked vigorously along it. He was checked, however, by an obstacle beyond
his strength. The body was enclosed by a tight-fitting ring, and on this
he could make no impression.
Fastening his tiny fingers in the fur on one side, and scraping with his
free fore-paw on the other, he forced his way upwards. The soil grew
lighter above him, and in a few minutes he had reached the upper air, and
lay panting on the surface.
He then tried to pick up his position. The mole-run had brought him
some two hundred yards, nearly to the edge of the marshland. Across the
boundary rose a small plantation. Here he determined to seek shelter. He
had but fifty yards to go, and started to glide stealthily from tuft to
tuft.
On all sides the ground was alive with tiny insects. The larger kinds
seemed mostly to be sleeping. He ran full tilt against a drowsy butterfly,
sweeping its close-folded wings through half a circle, as he passed. They
sprang back with a jerk, but the insect itself remained motionless.
Grasshoppers clung to every other grass-stem; their eyes were dead and
staring. Here and there he saw a spider gripping its support and waiting
for the sunrise.
[Illustration: HE TRIED TO PICK UP HIS POSITION.]
Once he found himself confronted by a bloated toad. The amphibian surveyed
him solemnly, but never moved. A low hiss whistled through the grass. He
crouched in terror while four feet of grass-snake undulated by. A
shrewmouse broke cover in front of him, followed by its mate. The air
resounded with shrill defiant squeaks as the two bunchy velvet balls
rolled over one another out of sight.
So he worked his way along towards the boundary; pausing at intervals to
gnaw at the growing plant-stems, or to sit on his haunches and nibble some
fallen seed which took his fancy.
[Illustration: VOLE-LIKE THIS LATTER WAS, YET HE WAS NO ORDINARY VOLE.]
It was close to the plantation that a familiar movement in the grass
seemed to betray the presence of a near relation. Hastening towards it
he found himself confronted by a total stranger. Vole-like this latter
undoubtedly was, yet he was no ordinary vole. Delicate chestnut fur,
brilliant white feet, a whitish waistcoat, and a paste-coloured two-inch
tail proclaimed the red vole at once.
[Illustration: THEY SAT GAZING AT ONE ANOTHER.]
In size there was little to choose between them, and they sat gazing at
each other for some moments stolid and undismayed. Yet, despite the
equality of fighting weight, he felt himself somehow the inferior
creature. His thoughts ran on the old legend of the field-vole who mated
with a wood-mouse of high degree, and whose descendants to this day bear
the marks of their noble origin. So, when the stranger turned and leapt
lightly into the undergrowth that fringed the wood, he humbly tried to
follow.
That was no easy matter, for, where the other jumped, he could only
scramble, and on the flat he felt himself hopelessly outclassed. Still,
once beyond the outskirts of the wood, the tangled thickets gave way to
something less luxuriant, and he could sight his leader more frequently.
All at once he checked himself, and, with a sudden access of natural
caution, flattened himself to earth. He had blundered into the red-vole
community.
[Illustration: A WOOD-MOUSE OF HIGH DEGREE.]
Five small active forms were gliding hither and thither among the fallen
leaves. They were too busy to notice him, and were evidently working with
some method, for, at intervals, one or the other would make his way
slowly to a definite spot, and then return light-footed to his task. He
edged a little closer to observe them. Then the meaning of it flashed upon
him. They were nut-hunting.
[Illustration: SO, WHEN THE STRANGER LEAPT LIGHTLY INTO THE UNDERGROWTH.]
Sometimes the nut was carried in their mouths, sometimes rolled along the
ground, sometimes wedged between the chin and fore-paws, but, when they
reached their goal, it seemed to vanish.
Of this there could be but one solution. The nuts were being taken to a
burrow-entrance. Curiosity overcame him, and, seizing a quiet moment, he
slipped down the burrow. It plunged abruptly for about a foot, passed
under a curving root, squeezed between some small root branches, and
terminated in a double compartment. Three nuts hit him from behind as he
descended.
[Illustration: HE HUMBLY TRIED TO FOLLOW.]
To his left lay the nest, a mass of feathery grass and mosses. He slipped
into it, and, as he cleared the shaft entrance, the three nuts followed
with a rush. He lay there quiet until his eyes had become accustomed to
the semi-darkness.
Then he perceived that he was not alone. The right-hand portion of the
hollow held a lady tenant. She had her back to him, and was busily
employed in the storeroom. He could just distinguish that the farthest
recess held a great pile of nuts, and that her business was to collect the
nuts as they toppled down the shoot, and stack them in as small a space as
possible.
[Illustration: SHE PAUSED, AND HE SAW HER SNIFF SUSPICIOUSLY.]
Suddenly she paused, and he saw her sniff suspiciously, she swung round,
and he was discovered. He had barely time to back into a corner, before
she was upon him, and at the first nip, he knew that he had met a better
vole. Over they rolled, scratching, biting, tearing. Her sharp, chisel
teeth met in his ear and tore the half of it away. The blood blinded him,
but he stuck grimly to his task.
[Illustration: SHE SWUNG ROUND, AND HE WAS DISCOVERED.]
Physically he was at an immense disadvantage. His clumsy movements availed
but little against the fierce agility of the red vole. Time after time he
snapped at her and missed; for, even as he aimed, she could swing her
lithe body round and leap upon him from behind. Nor, when they grappled,
could he retain his hold on her. Against the leverage of those powerful
hind legs he could do nothing.
His cause, moreover, was a bad one. Was he not the intruder? and when was
ever mercy accorded to such among four-footed things? His strength was
fast failing when he fled, hotly pursued, up to the open once more. He
only exchanged one foe for four. Lacerated, faint, and bleeding, he
crouched, waiting for their attack. It was a short and savage one. An owl
hooted above, the red voles rushed to cover, but he remained behind.
He had only really felt one bite. A pair of razor teeth had nipped his
spine, and--he had hardly noticed a dozen other wounds. He was terribly
thirsty, and struggled to reach a dewdrop which hung above his head, but
his hind legs were paralyzed and powerless. Gradually his eyelids drooped,
and he sank slowly over on one side. It was growing very dark and very
cold.
THE APOLOGY OF THE HOUSE SPARROW
(NOTE.--It would not be morally profitable to describe how I learnt
Sparrowese. The language of the sparrow is the language of the
gutter. I have Englishized it throughout.)
"I was the odd egg, for one thing," said the sparrow. He was speaking with
his mouth full, as usual.
[Illustration: HE WAS SPEAKING WITH HIS MOUTH FULL, AS USUAL.]
"What on earth do you mean by that?" I replied.
He laughed offensively. "Do you know anything about sparrows?" he sneered.
I confessed I did not know much.
"I never knew any one write about them who did," he went on. "What was I
saying when you interrupted me?"
"You said you were the odd egg," I replied. "What _is_ an odd egg?"
"Do you know what a _clutch_ is?" His intonation was insolence itself.
"A clutch," said I, "is, I believe, a sitting of eggs destined to be
simultaneously hatched."
"Perhaps you may have noticed," said he, "that in our family"--his every
feather bristled with importance, and the white bars on his wings were
beautifully displayed--"we do not confine ourselves to a single monotonous
pattern of egg."
"A string of variegated sparrows' eggs was one of my earliest treasures,"
said I.
"Well, then, if you know that much, and don't know what the odd egg is,
you must be a fool," said he.
It is hard to be insulted by a sparrow, and, as it is, I have toned down
the expression, but I preserved a meek silence.
"Any one," he went on, with bland condescension, "who has seen a few
clutches of sparrows' eggs, and has not noticed that there is an odd egg
in each clutch, must be an uncommonly poor observer."
"It is not in the books," I ventured to protest.
"Books!" he screamed, "books! What do the people who write books know
about sparrows? And yet, do you know that there has been more ink spilt
over sparrows than over any other bird? that laws innumerable have been
passed concerning sparrows? that associations have been formed to
exterminate sparrows? that--that--that----"
[Illustration: THERE IS AN ODD EGG IN EACH CLUTCH.]
The excitement was too much for him; he had been keeping time with his
tail to this declamatory crescendo. With the last effort he cocked it a
shade too high, lost his balance, and landed, considerably ruffled, some
four feet beneath his own reserved and particular twig. His eye was on me,
and I felt it too serious a matter for laughter. He made what was
evidently intended for a dignified ascent, choosing, with minute
exactness, the steps he had originally employed on my approach. It was a
full minute before he broke the silence, and for that full minute I had to
preserve my gravity.
[Illustration: IT WAS A FULL MINUTE BEFORE HE BROKE THE SILENCE.]
"Have you any clutches by you?" he said at last.
I had, and fetched them.
"Now," said he, "look at that one, four dark and one light; look at this,
four light and one dark; and at this, six light mottled, and one among
them with a few black spots."
I had to admit that it seemed true.
"True," said he, "of course it's true. Didn't I tell you that I was the
odd egg myself?"
"Well, _one_ of you had to be the odd egg, I suppose?"
"Wrong again," said he. "What you don't seem to realize is, that the odd
egg is nearly always addled; in my case it wasn't."
"Then, in your case," said I, "there was one more mouth to feed than your
parents expected. How did they take it?"
"Mother kept it quiet as long as she could," said he.
"And father?"
"Father didn't find out for a day or two, and when he did, he pushed one
of my brothers over the side of the nest--he did holler for his life!"
The little beast was actually chuckling at the recollection.
"He hung head downwards by one leg, and wouldn't let go till father dug
his beak into him."
"Brutal," I murmured.
"Brutal! not a bit of it. You can't feed more than a certain number of
nestlings; besides which, there wouldn't be room in the nest. As it was, I
fell out before I could fly."
"What happened then?"
"Why, the old folks came and fed me, and helped me back again the shortest
way up the bark. Brutal, wasn't it? A martin wouldn't do that."
"Which reminds me," said I, "that you were not born in a martin's-nest.
Are trees the fashionable quarter just now?"
"They've come in more since thatched roofs went out," said the sparrow.
"It's tree or martins'-nests nowadays."
"You do really drive away the martins, I suppose?"
"Yes," he sniggered; "poor, dear little martins! Look here," said he, and
his voice changed from a snigger to vicious earnest. "We sparrows are just
about sick of being accused of bullying martins. White of Selborne started
it, but he didn't know what it would lead to. Would you like to know the
truth of the matter?"
It was one of the things I did want to hear, and I nodded assent.
"The disappearance of martins is a loss really of national importance," he
began, in a sickly whine. "It is a shame to see how the pretty house
martins are decreasing in this country at the hand of the sparrows," he
continued. "He drives away our migratory and pre-eminently useful
insect-eating birds, even turning out the eggs of the owners and using the
locality for its own nest."
He was obviously quoting from the pro-martin authorities, and I stopped
him.
"I have heard all that before," said I.
"There's a fair amount of it about, pages and pages," said he; "there's
one story, for instance, of twenty or thirty martins blocking up the bold,
bad sparrow inside the nest, which the said bold, bad sparrow had usurped.
What do you think of that?"
"I think it is untrue," I promptly replied.
"It _is_ untrue," said he; "but it isn't far away from truth, for all
that. Many a dead sparrow has been found in a martin's-nest, and many a
time the entrance was too small for a sparrow to have got out of; but,
still, it wouldn't take a healthy sparrow long to break up a
martin's-nest."
"What has happened then?" said I.
[Illustration: ONE PART OF WHITE ARSENIC TO FIFTEEN PARTS OF CORN-MEAL, IS
THE USUAL RECIPE.]
"Why, of course, the sparrow was dying when it got in. One part of white
arsenic to fifteen parts of corn-meal is the usual recipe. It is illegal,
as you doubtless know, but it has the advantage of acting slowly. Of
course, if we _saw_ a friend of ours writhing about in the feeding-ground,
we should give that feeding-ground a wide berth."
"I see," said I; "but what about the entrance being plastered up?"
"It is never quite plastered up," said he; "and even if it was, a healthy,
able-bodied sparrow could knock the whole thing to pieces with two pecks.
No; when there are any disputes as to proprietorship between sparrows and
martins, the martins have a trick of waiting till the sparrow is out, and
then narrowing down the entrance so that the sparrow will have a job to
get in decent nest material. When a live sparrow is in possession, he very
soon lets callers know it. The martins, in these cases, miss their usual
greeting, and probably conclude that the sparrow is away, whereas he is
really dead inside. That's just about the whole truth of the matter."
"But why on earth," I protested, "can't you build a proper nest for
yourself?"
"I don't know why it is," said he, "but the mere thought of a martin makes
a sparrow feel bad inside. Why does a dog naturally go for a cat? One
thing is quite certain, however. We both fancy human dwellings, and, if we
left the martins altogether alone, they would have all the best places in
no time. Now, that wouldn't be fair at all. I appeal to you as a fellow
Briton. We are British born and bred. We stay with you all the year round.
The martin only comes to look you up in the fine weather. Then he puts on
his showy foreign manners, and you say, 'How charming! so different to
those dirty, vulgar sparrows!' but, as soon as the weather breaks, off he
goes. Now, a hard winter is no fun for the sparrows. We are glad of any
shelter we can get, and the martins' deserted nests come in very handy.
Not only do we use them, but we keep them from falling to pieces, line
them with feathers, and make them into snug winter quarters. Back comes
the martin in the spring. 'Dear me!' he says, 'most gratifying, I am sure.
So kind of you to act as caretaker. Why, I declare, the old place looks
better than when I left. Of course, you won't mind my coming in at once.
I've got to make my family arrangements for the season.' 'Not quite,' says
the sparrow. 'If it hadn't been for me, this nest would have been down in
the last gale. I've put money into this nest, and you can jolly well go
and build another. You ought to have stayed to look after it, if you
wanted it again.'"
"That is all very well," said I; "but it seems to me that there ought to
be room for both of you."
"Well, there isn't," said he, "and Nature has worked it out that there
shan't be, and if you write a thousand letters to the _Field_, you won't
alter that."
"Suppose the martins got the pull over the sparrows, do you think it would
be better for things in general?"
"You mean better for yourself," said the sparrow, sharply.
On reflection, I came to the conclusion that that was just what I did
mean.
"I don't believe an increase of insect-eating birds would do you much
good," he went on. "Suppose, for instance, the ichneumon flies were
decimated, what a time it would be for the caterpillars! How would some
of your plants get on if there weren't enough insects to fertilize them?"
I felt it was time to shift my ground. "Let us get back to your early
history," said I. "What was the nest like?"