106 WOODLANDERS AND FIELD FOLK 



field-mice are partial to bees, and they too are here. 

 So true it is that " Nature is one with rapine, a harm 

 no preacher can heal : the May-flower is torn by the 

 swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, and the 

 whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder 

 and prey." 



I creep by the tangled hedge-bottom, in view of the 

 brae where the partridges bask, and wait watch- 

 fully. Soon last year's oak-leaves are gently rustled, 

 and from the weed-flowers by the woodbine's root 

 emerges a pretty white-bellied mouse with a long 

 tail. It runs by little starts, turning aside to seize 

 an insect as it goes; clambering up tall grass-stalks, 

 hanging by its prehensile tail, swinging from the red 

 campion to the corn, and now sitting upright holding 

 a golden ear. Soon another mouse rustles through 

 the oak-leaves and joins its mate. They gnaw off 

 an ear of grain, and allow it to fall to the clover; 

 then they descend. Soon the husks are made to 

 come away, and But a dark shadow comes over 

 the field, and the mice rush hurriedly away. The 

 kestrel for a moment hangs over and is gone; but 

 the harvest-mice do not return. Wading out a 

 little into the corn, I find their nest. It is a beautiful 

 ball-like structure, exquisitely soft, and made of 

 long grass-blades cunningly interlaced. The corn 

 stalks pass right through it. 



The harvest-mouse is somewhat rare, and, like 



