AN INVASION BY MICE. 97 



At the village of Baler we pitch our camp in a maize 

 field. The tent has not long been shut up for the night, 

 when I am aroused by the patter of innumerable little feet 

 on the canvas stretched over my head. It was unmis- 

 takably the tread of fairy footsteps, else, suddenly aroused 

 from a sound sleep as I was, one would have naturally 

 imagined the bear or panther we can never find at home 

 in the daytime, had called to pay us an evening visit. 

 Striking a light, we found the place alive with field mice, 

 — I suppose we must have pitched our tents over their 

 holes. 



I had visions of Dick Whittington and the Emperor 

 of Morocco, and longed for a cat, in lieu of which several 

 large dogs prowled round all night, hoarsely baying the 

 moon. All the villages in these mountains have a fine 

 breed of big sheep dog with shaggy reddish-gray coats, 

 so fierce that they say two or three of them together will 

 tackle a bear or a stag. Unfortunately they seem to 

 despise such "small deer" as "mice." Next morning I 

 tried to make friends with the dogs, but no offers of food 

 would tempt them to approach us. They rather resemble 

 the Pyrenean variety, and like them are very savage and 

 unsociable to strangers. Still they are dogs, which I never 

 could bring myself to believe the unhappy, mangy-looking 

 pariahs of the Indian plains to be. 



November 17th. — We start soon after daybreak. A 



