THE LITTLE TIGER OF OUR JUNGLES 49 



picked up a young weasel, its mother has dashed at 

 him, running up his legs, and trying to reach his 

 throat. 



Over birds, as over mice and rabbits, the weasel has 

 the same power of fascination. As if he knows his 

 power to strike dread into hearts, he tries, so it seems, 

 to make believe at times that he is not a weasel at all. 

 His plan is to cut all kinds of capers, in innocent- 

 looking and playful manner, which will attract and 

 hold the birds in a spell of curiosity, or allow him to 

 dance his way within striking distance. Sometimes 

 on a lawn, where a family party of birds is parading, 

 the weasel appears, whirling and tossing himself 

 about, but ever working his way nearer and nearer. . . . 



Or the scene is a quiet dell haunted by small birds. 

 All of a sudden an uproar arises among them, alarm- 

 cries break out, an excited chatter and babel. As one 

 or two raise the cry of danger, others quickly gather to 

 see what is amiss, adding their notes to the hubbub. 

 " Spink ! Spink ! Weasel ! Weasel ! " cries the chaffinch, 

 and torn-tits join in with sharp notes of hatred and 

 fear, wrens scold, and plaintive notes come from the 

 warblers. All this time the weasel has been crouching, 

 eyeing the birds, and whimpering as he eyes them. 

 Then of a sudden he begins his dance ; and it is a dance 

 of death. 



He rears himself on his hind legs ; he skips into the 

 air like a bounding lamb ; you would think he had 

 begun an innocent frolic. He cuts capers, he whirls, 

 he tumbles ; then again he crouches and he whimpers. 

 Each time he whirls and cavorts a new hubbub louder 

 than before rises from the birds ; they seem to grow 

 frenzied, losing their senses, amazed and overwhelmed 

 by fatal curiosity and at last one hapless bird pays 

 the penalty for all. 



