Climbing Mice. 109 



The heaps they throw up are awkward in mowing 

 grass, the scythe striking against them ; and in con- 

 sequence of complaints of their rapid multiplication in 

 the woods the keeper has to employ men to reduce 

 their numbers. It is curious to note how speedily the 

 mole buries himself in the soil ; it is as if he suddenly 

 dived into the earth. 



Another slight rustling — a pause, and it is 

 repeated ; this time on the bank, among the dry 

 grass. It is mice ; they have a nervous habit of pro- 

 gressing in sharp, short stages. They rush forward 

 seven or eight inches with lightning-like celerity— a 

 dun streak seems to pass before your eye ; then they 

 stop short a moment or two, and again make another 

 dash. This renders it difficult to observe them, 

 especially as a single dead brown leaf is sufficient to 

 hide one. It is so silent that they grow bold, and 

 play their antics freely, darting to and fro, round and 

 under the stoles, chasing each other. Sometimes they 

 climb the bushes, running along the upper surface of 

 the boughs that chance to be nearly horizontal. 

 Once on a hawthorn branch in a hedge I saw a mouse 

 descending with an acorn ; he was, perhaps, five feet 

 from the ground, and how and from whence he had 

 got his burden was rather puzzling at first. Probably 

 the acorn, dropping from the tree, had been caught 



