46 By Leafy Ways. 



It is seldom that the shrew-mouse is seen, though 

 the rustling leaves often betray its devious course, and 

 its tiny voice is a familiar woodland sound. 



Rarely does the mole come up from his under- 

 world into the glare of day, and shamble awkwardly 

 across the path that is too hard to burrow under. 



The stoat and the weasel, conscious perhaps of a 

 black record, and fearful of retribution, hold them- 

 selves aloof, and we seldom do more than catch a 

 hasty glimpse of a brown coat, and long, slender body, 

 as one of the murderous race flees at our approach. 



Even the owl is more often heard than seen, and it 

 is not often that we have the chance of examining the 

 quaint features of a bat. 



But there is a whole tribe of wild creatures scattered 

 over the country, who, though not rare, are little known, 

 and who must be comparative strangers to society in 

 general. 



Frogs and toads are familiar enough, and the latter 

 are encouraged by all gardeners who know their busi- 

 ness. Still, the toad is not a general favourite, in 

 spite of the lustre of his lovely eyes. 



The beautiful newts that inhabit the horsepond are 

 still under the ban, and fearsome tales are current, in 

 country places, of the terrible efts that will bite a piece 

 out of your hand, and spit fire into the wound. 



On the dry heaths there are active little lizards, clad 

 in mail, like miniature alligators, much smaller and 

 less brilliant than their handsome cousins who sun 



