THE LITTLE LION 265 



ripple between one waterfall and the next. It is a 

 destroyer and a taster of blood come into this scene of 

 peace a weasel bearing in its mouth a little bird that 

 may be a fledgling whitethroat. He pauses a moment, 

 as though to take a better grip of his loot, then leaps 

 on the rail and begins to come across the stream. 

 When he sees us, we say, he will be so startled that he 

 will fall in the stream. He will lose his prey and have 

 to make off empty-handed. He does see us, when a 

 little more than half-way across, but it is only to raise 

 his head and glare a moment from his phosphorescent 

 eyes, then to move a little more quickly over the 

 remainder'of his tight-rope and disappear in the horse- 

 mint almost at our feet. 



It would be useless to follow him, even were we 

 blood-thirstily inclined. As we sit silent, it is probable 

 that he watches us from some coign in the tangle, 

 unseen. We could feign the squeak of a distressed 

 rabbit and call him from his jungle. He would pop 

 out a round, inquisitive face, standing on his hind-legs 

 to do so, and if we squeaked artistically, he would 

 jump nearer and nearer till we could, if very agile, 

 knock him down with a stick. But our weasel is a 

 little king of the field that we are not anxious to kill. 

 He is not as the rats, at once cheap and horrible on 

 account of their abundant numbers, nor is he a mad 

 tyrant like the stoat, a senseless reveller in blood that 

 must be stopped if anything else we prize is to remain 

 alive. He scarcely derives dignity from his relation- 

 ship with the stoat, fitcher, and marten, for the weasel's 

 courage is the equal of theirs, and the deeds of prowess 

 to his credit quite as notable, size for size, often almost 

 so without regard to size. On the other hand, he 



