to her, lo ! two baby mice, little bigger than 

 thimbles. 



In this mild and even temperature, four feet 

 below the frozen surface of the garden, with 

 never a care as to weather and provisions, dwelt 

 this single family of meadow-mice. What a 

 home it was ! A mansion, indeed, with rooms 

 innumerable, and a main hall girdling a very 

 mountain of juicy, sugary beets. This family 

 could not complain of hard times. Besides the 

 beets, the mice had harvested for themselves a 

 number of cribs of clover-roots. These cribs, or 

 bins, were in the shape of little pockets in the 

 walls of the great gallery. Each contained a 

 cupful of the thick, meaty tap-roots of clover, 

 cut into lengths of about half an inch. If the 

 beets should fail ( ! ), or cloy upon them, they 

 had the roots to fall back on. 



It was absolutely dark here, and worse ; there 

 was no way to get fresh air that I could see. Yet 

 here two baby mice were born in the very dead 

 of winter, and here they grew as strong and warm 

 and happy as they would have grown had the 

 season showered rose-petals instead of snow- 

 flakes over the garden above. 

 [57] 



