III. 



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. 



WALKING 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-rnice, 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 



