Chapter IV: Part 4

After these the animals. Round Eye the dormouse goes to sleep about November. He builds a nest of leaves and grass all around himself, and, if the winter is cold, sleeps straight away into April. If the winter is warm, however, he may wake up and eat a little food, and if he is a wise little mouse, as he usually is, he keeps a little store of nuts and seeds at hand in case he _does_ wake up. Prickles the hedge-pig does much the same. He has a nest which is even warmer, for, besides the leaves and grass which make the round of it, he rolls his spines into anything soft which will stick to them and so has a nice warm blanket next to his skin. Once he has dropped off to sleep he stays asleep till the spring comes. I don't think he ever wakes up like the dormouse, or ever makes a store of food.

The only other animals which sleep the winter through in this country are the bats, and some of them sleep even longer than the dormouse and the hedge-pig; indeed, they are only awake for three or four months in the year. Sometimes there are crowds of them sleeping together in old caves, and tree trunks, and places like that, and it may be that they half wake up and talk to each other to pass away the time. Indeed, if you know their hole and can put your ear close to it, you can sometimes hear them talking and squabbling--faint little squabblings like the sound of a kettle simmering on the hob when you can just hear the tiny bubbles hitting each other and bursting with bad temper.

When bats are flying about and hunting for moths they often squeak for joy, and then their voice is quite different. It is so high that some people cannot hear it at all; but you can make a noise just like it by striking two pennies sharply together, and if you can hear that being done when you are several yards away from the person who is doing it, you ought to be able to hear a bat squeak too.

You have to watch bats very closely before you can tell one kind from another, and I expect some of you will be surprised to hear that there are more different kinds of bats in England than there are of any other kinds of animals. There are, at least, twelve different kinds of English bats, and, as bats now and then seem to get blown over the sea from France, or be brought in the rigging of ships, quite a strange foreign bat may turn up sometimes.

THE BLUNDERS OF BARTIMÆUS (MICHAELMAS DAY)

Bartimæus was simply mole-tired (which is as tired as a beastie can be), and he lay on his side, with his nose tucked into his waistcoat, and dreamed of Nydia, fretfully. Nydia was half a field away, dozing in a snug fortress of her own, with four fat helpless babies to attend to, and not a passing thought for Bartimæus.

Five times within twelve hours had Bartimæus sought her. Five times had he traversed his main-line tunnel, turned eastward at the junction by the fence, and, breasting up the up-grade full tilt, thrust an inquiring nose at Nydia's nest. Why shouldn't he? Why should he stand on ceremony with four fat, squirmy, wrinkled, hairless infants?

But Nydia had been mightily offended. Each time she had boxed his ears. Each time she had bitten him. And so he had retreated; not for fear, but for black shame--black shame which he had brought upon himself; for Father Moles may not approach Mole babies--that is Mole law, and that has been Mole law since Moles first dug.

Long journeyings these to Nydia, a hundred yards each way at least, but not of length to tire him. He had found time and energy for in-between excursions. One to the mill-house orchard--there staring hillocks proved it; one to the sacred croquet lawn--he left his marks here also; one to the mid-field partridge nest, which meant one egg the less.

A cheerful strenuous day's work; on which, but for the finish of it, he might have slept at ease.

Nydia's last bite and buffet had been real.

She swept her right hand cross-ways, baring her teeth in line with it, and screwing round her shoulders for the swing. Then she lunged backwards viciously. This meant a dragging wound which hurt, and Bartimæus had bitten too, and, as ill-luck would have it, bitten a baby. Nydia flung at him squealing, and, when a Mother Mole flings at you squealing, one prudent course and only one is open.

His nose was bleeding as he started home, and he was hot and thirsty. He headed straight for water. A ten-yard down-slant brought him to the brook. He drank his fill, then, tempted by the coolness, set off swimming. He swam as deftly as a water-shrew, high out of water, with his stumpy tail cocked upward in his wake.

He reached the farther side without mishap, rustled the moisture off his fur, then started climbing. The bank rose steeply over him, but here and there a naked root gave hand-hold, and, shoulder-hoisted over these, he scrambled to the level. On this he travelled easily, using his paddle-hands as sweeps, and scuttling with his feet. From the brookside half-way across the field, and almost to the dried-up middle-ditch, bent grass-stems marked his trail. He checked close by the alder-stump, nosed at the ground, and started digging.

Perhaps he scented supper.

The alder-stump is populous still. Its core, now sapless, lifeless touchwood, is riddled through and through. Here moths-to-be, and flies-to-be, and beetles-to-be have spent their youth and fattened. Virtue still lingers in the roots, and, hidden by the forks and bends of them, quiet lives consume, or bide their time. Now and again a human hand "collects" them, now and again a mole, the skilfullest pupa hunter in the world.

Yet Bartimæus was not really hungry--he dug more from ill-humour, wrenching the grass-tufts sideways with his teeth, and slashing fiercely with his hands, until he forced an entrance for his shoulders.

Then his whole action changed.

He stabbed his nose into the soil, and, twisting from the shoulders, screwed it home. Then he drew back his head, turned over sideways, and, with one shoulder and one hand thrust out, gained purchase where his nose had been, and scratched at the soft earth. As one side tired he turned about, and thrust its fellow forward. Sometimes he lay upon his back, and heaved and squirmed and shuffled. Sometimes he screwed his way, his whole frame twisted spirally, half prostrate, half supine.

He drove a six-inch downward slant, then, for one yard, a level course, then upwards half a foot again. His pink nose broke the surface crust, snuffed, and dropped back. The first stage was accomplished, but only the first stage. His tube was choked and littered end to end. He backed nine inches through the loose, reversed, ducked down his head, and charged. Part of the rubble caked as he drove past, and part was swept before him to the outlet. It spurted through and sprayed upon the grass. Six charges raised a mole hill, and left a half-yard tunnel clear. His hands compressed the sides of it to smoothness.

He made a cave and four runs leading from it. Three plunged deep down, and hillocks marked their course. The fourth was near the surface. Its flimsy roof, pressed upwards from below, and dotted end to end with spits of soil, cast a betraying shadow.

It was good feeding-ground. In it were worms innumerable, slow-minded worms which held their ground too long, and footless leathern-coated grubs, grubs of beetles and flies, and eggs innumerable, grasshoppers' eggs, earwigs' eggs, and eggs of smaller fry, some massed in sticky clutches, some dispersed.

He toiled and fed alternately. He made a nest inside his cave, a mass of leaves and grasses dragged down into his surface run (to thrust his mouth out was sufficient), and pulled or pushed into their proper station.

This done he slept, his head tucked down between his hands, his hind feet curled up under him.

All but his ears slept soundly.

* * * * *

_One-Two--One-Two--One-Two._ Twin footfalls almost over him, and with them a soliloquy deep-toned.

"Comin' right down valley they be. That's them water-works. Down goes springs. Up comes nunkey-tumps. I'll get this one for sure. Here! Tatters!"

Out like a loosened spring leapt Bartimæus, and plunged into his surface run. Half-way along it he stopped dead and listened, the tip of his pink nose thrust through the roof.

Man's booted tread he knew full well; man's voice he knew, but something else was coming,--something which lilted pit-a-pat, something with yielding velvet pads, something four-footed. It danced towards him, louder still and louder, till a hoarse whisper checked it. "Steady you fool! Here good dog! Steady!"

The pink nose dropped. Only one grass-blade stirred, but Tatters saw it.

His every muscle tautened as he pointed. His hair stood stiff upon his back, his eyes stared fixedly.

For half a minute he stood tense; then Bartimæus breathed, and at his breath a grass-stem twitched and flickered.

Tatters upreared and poised himself, stayed poised a moment, then, with a vicious dropping lunge, stabbed with his forefeet downward. His muzzle followed instantly, and screwed and ploughed along the run until the weight of roof upcurled checked further progress.

Then only did he raise his head and look back shamefaced at his master. He had completely missed.

"Tatters, you'm grown old, I reckon--like your Master. Never mind, lad, we'll have 'im yet. We'll put a trap down tea-time. Come off it now! Think you can scratch him out?"

Tatters was burrowing tooth and nail, uprooting grass clumps with his teeth, drumming with his forefeet, and showering sods between his hind feet backwards. He raised a wistful, mud-stained face and whined, shook himself doubtfully, started, turned back for one more scratch, then galloped to his master's call.

And Bartimæus had been burrowing too--opening a bolt-hole which should close behind him, passing the dislodged earth beneath himself, and piling it to cover his retreat.

Tatters had all but pinned his body, and that would have meant death to him. Tatters _had_ pinned his tail, but, with a wriggle, he had freed himself, out-distanced the pursuing nose, dived through the nest, and twisting sharply right, reached the west outlet shaft. Fist over feet he scuttled down and screwed himself into the blinded end. He bored two yards zigzagging, then paused for breath. He pricked his stumpy whiskers up, starred the grey fur about his eyes, spread wide his pinhole ears. He was quite safe. The ground before, behind, and on all sides of him, was dead. Ten minutes passed before he moved, then he worked quickly upwards, and broke the ground beneath a clump of thistles.

"They've gone," said a small piping voice above him.

The nose of Bartimæus, pink and quivery, had issued first, his bullet head had followed, then his great hands and shoulders. The sunbeams played upon his coat, and waves of limpid shimmery blue crept softly to and fro in it.

"They've gone," the Harvest Mouse repeated.

"Excellent!" said Bartimæus. "I can't see who I am talking to--this 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."

"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.

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.

"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."

"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.

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.

"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_."

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.

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.

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)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

THE GREAT GREEN GRASSHOPPER'S BAND (CHRISTMAS DAY)

"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.

"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."

"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.

"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.

"Of course not," he said; "you never played anything in your life."

"It's all the same to me," said the Cockroach. "I've given up those silly meadows long ago. Good-night, lunatics!" and he drew his whiskers in and disappeared.

"Was that eleven?" said the House Cricket, taking no notice of his rudeness. "We've no time to lose then. Come along!"

Winnie climbed up on his back as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and the two Beetles climbed up behind her. The drummer Beetle started playing at once--_one-two-three-four, pit-tip, tip-pit; one-two-three-four, pat-tap, tap-pat_--and the whole four of them sailed up the chimney. It was not hot (as Winnie explained), for the fire had burnt very low and that was what had beaten the kettle, but it _was_ sooty, and she remembers quite well longing to see the clean, white snow on the roof. The Cricket went up crab-wise--a little jump to one side and a little jump to the other; so he took quite a long time to reach the chimney-pot, and when he crawled on to the edge of it the snow was all gone. ("That was the queerest thing of all, Father," said Winnie "there were leaves and flowers and sunshine, and it was just like summer.")

"Now hold tight," said the Cricket, "while I unpack my wings."

This was quite a long business, for the Cricket had to keep moistening his fingers, and Winnie and the Beetles had to keep crawling up and down his back, so as not to be in the way. At last everything was ready, and the Cricket poised himself on the edge of the chimney, spread his wings wide apart, and slid into the air. Winnie was just a little frightened at first, and she put her head down close to the Cricket's neck and shut her eyes and dug her fingers into the chinks of his back; but presently she felt that it was no good being frightened, for they were going quite smoothly, and the Cricket's wing-covers were high up on either side of her, so that she could hardly have fallen off if she had tried to. Soon she felt brave enough to raise her head very carefully and look about her. The kitchen chimney was some way behind, the great elm on her left, and the river close in front. Just before they reached the river the Cricket's wings buzzed like blue-bottles, and she felt they were going upwards. Then came another long, gentle glide, and the Cricket landed on the blackberry hedge at the bottom of the meadow.

"You must all get off here," he said.

Winnie stepped off his back on to a slippery thorn, missed her footing, and fell on the top of the Great Green Grasshopper's wife.

"I beg your pardon!" said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife.

"I think I ought to beg yours," said Winnie politely--which is where the story began some time ago.

The Great Green Grasshopper's wife was more amused than offended.

"Don't mention it," she said. "I suppose you've come to help us, and I'm very glad to see you. It is really most unfortunate, but I couldn't possibly let my husband come--the first Christmas Eve he has missed for years--but, as I said to him, 'If your leg's frostbitten, you're much better in your hole.' Don't you agree with me?"

"Oh, yes, I think so," said Winnie, who felt she must say something.

"Of course we shall miss him very much," said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife, "but if the Field Cricket isn't too nervous, I dare say we shall pull through. I see you have brought our drummer with you, and here is the Mole Cricket coming up, and the Wood Cricket, and I saw the Bush-cheeps a moment ago. Do you really mean to tell me that you have never met any of them? Then I must introduce you. This is the Mole Cricket. You can't ever mistake him if you have once seen his feet; and this is the Field Cricket--you can't mistake a blackamoor like him either; and this is the Wood Cricket with the check trowsers; and the Bush-cheep always wears a brown tail-coat and a greeny waistcoat. Now you all know each other and we must get to work. What do you play?"

Winnie had been getting a little uneasy all this time, for the Crickets had been unpacking their instruments and making little scrapes just like the band before the pantomime, and she had felt that she would be expected to do something too, and had made up her mind as to what she would say if she were asked.

"I can play a grass-blade a little," she said.

"Well, there's lots of grass about," said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife. "Let's hear you do it."

So Winnie picked a big blade of grass and jammed it tight between the balls of her thumbs and pressed her lips hard against it and began to play. The first note sent the Great Green Grasshopper's wife's hind legs straight up in the air, turned the Mole Cricket and the House Cricket and the Wood Cricket and the Bush-cheeps head-over-heels, and drove the Field Cricket into his hole.

"Easy, easy!" said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife. "You nearly blew my tail off. Can't you play more softly?"

"I'll try," said Winnie.

"Please do," said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife. "There, I knew what would happen. See what you've done."

The Field Cricket had all but disappeared, and there were only two little black legs sticking out of his hole.

"It's no use your trying to play in there," said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife. "Nobody will hear you at all."

"I can't help it," said the Field Cricket; "my nerves are completely upset."

"See what you've done," said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife again. "It will take him twenty minutes to recover."

And she was quite right. For twenty long minutes they had to wait and look at one another, and even at the end of that time the Field Cricket still seemed very shaken.

"I will do my best now," he said at last, "but I simply _must_ have my head hidden." He had backed out of his hole a little way and lifted up his wing-covers. Every now and then he chirruped softly.

"Well, it's better than nothing," said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife, "and you certainly have some excuse this time. Now let's begin." She climbed a little higher in the hedge, tapped sharply with one hind leg, and looked about her.

"Are you all ready?" she said. "Drums?"

"Here!" said the Beetles.

"First violin?"

"Here!" said the Field Cricket.

"Second violin?"

"Here!" said the House Cricket.

"Viola?"

"Here!" said the Wood Cricket.

"'Cello?"

"Here!" said the Mole Cricket.

"Flutes?"

"Here!" said the Bush-cheeps.

"Grass-blade?"

"Here!" said Winnie, screwing her lips up very tight.

"Good!" said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife, and she reared herself up backwards and began to beat time with her hind legs.

"Two bars first," she said. "Now!"

At the third bar they all came in very fairly together, but before they had played half a minute the Great Green Grasshopper's wife stopped short.

("It was really worse than the real waits," Winnie explained. "It was like a million little glass stoppers being squeaked out of bottles--and they didn't seem to mind the time a bit.")

The Great Green Grasshopper's wife looked at Winnie quite severely.

"I asked you to play softly," she said; "you're drowning the whole band."

"I _can't_ play more softly than that," said Winnie.

"Well, there's only one thing to be done then," said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife. "I must hunt up the Skipjacks."

The Skipjacks are the little grasshoppers who live in the fields, and it takes quite a number of them to play a tune that you can hear.

"Wait for me here," said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife; "I sha'n't be long!" And she leapt like a jump-jim-crow and landed three yards clear of the hedge.

She really was some time away, but at last she reappeared driving the Skipjacks in front of her.

"It is so troublesome to keep them straight," she explained; "the little idiots! Look at them."

They certainly were a queer flock to manage, for they could only move by jumps, and when they jumped even they themselves had no idea of where they were jumping to. However, by driving them in front of her she managed to keep a few of them together, and at last she got them into their places.

"You must fiddle," she said, "as you never fiddled before. The band shall _not_ be beaten by a grass-blade. Now altogether--_one, two, three, four_!"

It was really much better that time, and though Winnie could not pick up the tune, everybody else seemed quite pleased with themselves.

"_That's_ better!" said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife. "Now again!"

But before the words were out of her mouth the great hall clock chimed in, _Ting--Ting--Ting--Ting_----

"Midnight!" screamed the Great Green Grasshopper's wife. "What _will_ become of us?"

_Ting--Ting--Ting--Ting_----

"It's fast!" cried Winnie: "I know it's fast. I put it on myself for getting up tomorrow."

"Are you quite sure?" said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife.

"Quite sure," declared Winnie; "it's five minutes fast at least."

"That's a great relief to my mind," said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife; "but, of course, we must stop at once."

Indeed, the Crickets were already packing up their instruments, and the last thing that Winnie remembers was the Great Green Grasshopper's wife hurrying the little Skipjacks off to bed.

THE PYGMY SHREW (BOXING-DAY)

Few know him and the careless eye may never see him. He is so small,--that four of him just stop a mouse-hole; so light,--that ten of him just tilt an ounce. Yet, if you search the files, you find him eminent. The Pygmy Shrew in Cornwall! The Pygmy Shrew in Kent!! The Pygmy Shrew in Rutlandshire!!!

Thus fame is garlanded round mystery.

Man's kingdom is brick-built and parchment guarded. The beasties have a nobler heritage. Fence your broad acres as you please, yet they shall quietly share them, paying you naught, and taking what they will. Water and air and land are theirs by prior, nay primeval, right. So shall you bend before their quality, and, for their lineage, you shall respect them.

Something had brushed across the Pygmy's nose. He shook off three days' sleep in three half-seconds. Where was his tail? Sleeping, he swings it up across his face, and gathers all four feet within its shelter. His tail was there, but in its waking-place, behind him. Then something must have moved it. He stretched his neck and sniffed, long wheezy sniffs which ended in a shiver; then he peered down the shaft. He jerked back to avoid an avalanche--a blinding dust-cloud, a rattle of small stones, and, in the midst, two common shrews close locked.

But I go on too fast.

The stump is close against the rookery-fence. It is a stump of quality, a residential stump, a maze of winding roots and secret chambers, wherein field-folk may live without acquaintance. There is a fellow to it in the meadow, another fronts the rabbit mound, and all three hold like tenants.

The woodmouse first, round-eyed and debonair; then the bank-vole, he who is half a mouse, with chestnut coat, broad ear and estimable tail; lastly the ranny-noses; the common shrew--a velvet-coated pepper-tempered gallant; the Pygmy, who is common shrew refined--purple and orange ripple in his fur, and him my Lady Sunshine loves the best of all.

All live together, yet apart, for, under ground, the stumps are intricate. The roots twist right and left and back upon themselves, and, over and beneath them, are the runs. Most are blind alleys, but a few creep on, and strike the upper air. The mice and voles reserve the lowest depths; they must be near the water; moreover they can tunnel where they will. The common shrews live higher, scratch two-inch levels where the rootlets aid them, and trust to their quick ears. The Pygmy takes what stouter beasties leave; and that is how the Pygmy's tail was moved--his sleeping-hole, the mould of some long-fallen stone, abutted on the shaft.

That two shrews should be fighting was quite usual. Shrews fight to keep their limbs in trim; they fight in play; they fight in deadly earnest. A veteran shrew is scarred in every part of him; great scars like thumbmarks, where new growth of fur has failed to draw up level with the old.

Yet even shrews need open ground to fight on. The Pygmy waited till the dust had cleared, then peered into the darkness. The scuffling of them could be plainly heard; and, sharp above it, rose their vicious war scream. The Pygmy knew what that meant--a bolt for upper air and honest fighting. He crouched back prudently. They rattled past once more in quick succession, the foremost gibbering his distress, the hindmost dumb. But this was dubious measure of their quality, for, where there is bare tunnel-room for one, one needs must be in front, and, then, his only weapon is his voice.

The Pygmy sprang up after them. He is the burrows' jackal, and takes an interest in serious fights. Once on the level ground he paused, made three small casts, then took the right-hand surface-run.

He was quite right; the combatants had passed that way. It was a zigzag run, but unimpeded. A drooping grass-stem tangle formed its roof, and, through long use, its sides were brown and withered, as though some noxious snake had glided through, and poisoned every growing blade it touched. The Pygmy knew it end to end, and knew that, where it broke, close to the elm, there was a moss-grown clearing. So he took matters quietly, and, lingering as the fancy took him, had supped before he reached the fighting-ground. The common shrews were feinting for an opening. He knew them both by sight. One, a brown-coated, thick-set scaramouch was neighbour to him in the stump. The other was a meadow-shrew, of lighter build and colour, but longer and full match in weight. The Pygmy rubbed his nose between his paws--a pretty fight was promised.

And others seemed to have got wind of it. The grass-stems flicking to and fro betrayed them. On every side he heard short, fluttery mouse-steps. Above he caught shrill squeaks and whimperings; a bat was busy with the filmy moths. Below the ground seemed shivery--that was the mole. The Pygmy heard and scented him. He crawled discreetly up the trunk, and so could see as well as hear. In the green tangle round were flitting specks--the voles and mice assembling in hot haste. From these his eye passed to the combatants. The grey shrew's ear was torn, and from it hung one drop of blood. This was the lodestone.

Up from a moss-clump shot a woodmouse nose, and, at the back of it, two round black eyes looked murder. The Pygmy caught the chatter-grince of teeth; the bat still threaded needle-notes among the leaves; the leaves themselves were whispering; but clear above these short, crabbed, fretful sounds, he heard the steady rumble of the mole. The thing perplexed him. Could the expectant ring of mice be deaf? The pair that held the stage were too absorbed to notice anything.

It was the brown shrew who got home the first. His rival, feinting, flicked his tail too far, and, in a twinkle, it was seized. The grey shrew swung himself upon his back, and kicked with all four paws. But this was waste of strength. The shrewmouse has forked teeth, teeth that will hold a slippery rounded beetle, much more a soft square tail. So with necessity the spur of valour, he twisted round and nipped the brown shrew's foot. Both straightway bit their hardest; the twinge made both give way. They toppled backwards squealing. The grey shrew leant against the trunk and panted; the brown shrew lay half sideways fronting him, and, on all sides, the ring broke into chatterings. The Pygmy, trembling with delight, screamed out encouragement, but no one heard _his_ screams. The bat dived headlong from the leaves, skimmed in between them and shot up once more. The woodmouse crept two paces forward, then backed abruptly, for they were at grips. Each nipped a loose flap of the other's skin, and, bracing all four feet, tugged at its prize. They tugged until they toppled sideways; then with claws fastened in each other's fur, with tangled tails and rounded straining bodies, commenced to spin.

That is the way of shrewmice, much pother and slight wounds. Their fights are seldom mortal. Rather, they die for want of fighting. Their valiant souls misfit them.

So this hot-blooded, strenuous pair spun as one living ball across the ring, over and over, twist and twirl, upside and down, faster and faster, until the spin itself released them. Then they sat back from one another and wobbled like spent tops.