(II. 
WILD MICE. 
When every stream in its pent-house 
Goes gurgling on its .way, 
And in his gallery the mouse 
Nibbleth the meadow hay; 
Methinks the summer still is nigh, 
And lurketh underneath, 
As that same meadow-mouse doth lie 
Snug in that last year’s heath. 
THOREAU. 
Watxine about the fields, I come upon little pathways 
as plain as Indian trails, which lead in and out among the 
grass and weed-stalks, under Gothic arches the bending tops 
of the flowering grasses make, like roads for the tiny chariots 
of Queen Mab. ‘These curious little paths branching here 
and there, and crossing one another in all directions, are the 
runways of the field-mice, along which they go, mostly after 
sunset, to visit one another or bring home their plunder ; 
for the thieving little gray-coats of our cupboards, whose 
