248 SHARP EYES 



It is a great white page storied with the doings of the 

 little wild folk which few of us ever see. Who ever 

 sees a deer-mouse, or even a common field-mouse? The 

 summer meadows are full of them, but we should never 

 suspect it, did we not occasionally surprise one scam- 

 pering away with a squeak before the scythe of the 

 mower, or perhaps jumping like a gray streak from a 

 forkful of new-made hay, or from beneath the corn- 

 shock as it is raised to the cart. 



Their doings down deep among the summer grass no 

 one ever sees, but it is not so now. From the moment 

 their little whiskered noses peep from their burrows 

 their acts are recorded. They write their autobiography 

 day by day. We can see all the mischief they have 

 been up to during the night, and just what company 

 they have kept. 



Here is a well-worn track to a pile of brush near by 

 where the snow is all cut up with footprints a fa- 

 vorite rendezvous, evidently ; doubtless the gossip ex- 

 change of all the wild bead-eyed folk. Here is a spot 

 among the weeds where four little birds have danced a 

 quadrille or minuet balance corners, forward and back- 

 ward, chassez, and all hands round. Close by, the snow 

 appears as if sewed with tiny stitches, and here we see 

 two long jumping trails circling about a stump. How 

 alive they seem ! telling plainly of a lively race between 

 two mice, both tracks terminating in a hole beneath a 

 stump. The snow on the top of the stump is ruffled 

 with the feet of the furry populace who witnessed the 

 sport, and doubtless cheered on their favorites in their 

 sprightly race. 



I remember one winter catching sight of a retreating 

 tail whisking into a hole beneath a stump like this, and 



