54 CHILDREN OF THE SUN. 
of Andersen’s Fairy Tales. But the wind- 
bitten, sickle-hacked, dusty old roadside hedge 
had remained out of it all. 
This morning, however, the old hedge was 
full of song, a funny, little, tumbled, confused, 
gabbling medley of notes—here! there! over 
there! no, just round the corner! Every- 
where! Where on earth was it, then? It 
was uncanny—as if fairies really did people 
the hedge, and were intoning a chant to 
spring in an undertone. 
Came then a movement of a leaf—only that 
—and eyes, bright as ever were stars on a 
frosty night, shone out. A shark-like head 
followed, then a dainty brown back, tiny as 
you please, and light beneath. Thus the 
long-tailed field-mouse. 
He moved forward, as mice do move forward 
in a hedge, practically unseen while you look 
at them, and in a minute the singing seemed 
all round him. 
Then something was there among the twigs, 
creeping about, sidling along, running, climb- 
ing, creeping, ceaselessly on the move, ap- 
proaching—singing always to itself ever so 
softly. 
The mouse crouched. He thought for a 
moment it was that undesirable thing in his 
eyes—another mouse. But there came, as 
