8 LITTLE FOLKS 
She isn't brown like a common mouse either ; she is reddish on 
the back, and soft silky white on the under part of the body. Her 
ears are rather short, and on the whole she is an elegant little 
creature. 
How such an atom of a builder manages to weave this beauti- 
ful ball, of narrow grasses, hang it firmly to the wheat straws, and 
put her babies in, — and above all, how she contrives to get in and 
feed them, when the whole ball is just stuffed with babies, as tight 
as sardines in a box, — is what even the wise men don't know yet, for 
she's very shy, and don't like to be watched. 
In the picture you see Mamma Mouse sitting on the cradle, 
taking a lunch of an insect she has caught, while Papa Mouse is on 
the watch for one for himself. Do you see his tail curled around 
the wheat stalk ? Well, the tail is one of the most useful things a 
harvest mouse has. It is as long as his whole body, and he can 
hold on with it as well as though it was a hand. 
Mr. and Mrs. Micromys Minutus — that's their name in the big 
books, you must know — do not spend their winters in this airy 
home ; by no means ! They have a snug, warm house under ground, 
which they also make for themselves. It has a large living room, 
with long halls leading to it, and in this cozy place, in warm beds 
of hay or straw, the whole family go to sleep when the days get cold, 
and never open their eyes, or take a breath, till the spring comes 
back, and the sun shines warm on the ground. 
These pretty little creatures have other relations besides their 
brown cousins that nibble the cheese in our pantries. There is the 
Field Mouse, who builds his ball of a house on the grounds, among 
the grass, and his winter quarters underground, with storehouses 
where he lays up a stock of food for cold weather. 
This little mouse has been made quite famous by having a 
poem written about him. Burns, a Scotch poet, in plowing a field, 
tore up a field mouse's nest, and feeling sorry to turn the poor 
little mousie homeless out in the cold, he wrote a pretty little poem 
about it. He says, in his funny Scotch way, 
11 That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'dout for a' thy trouble." 
This little fellow is very fond of cherry stones, and he sits up 
like a squirrel to eat them, nibbling off one end and digging out the 
meat. He don't sleep so soundly as some of his cousins ; indeed his 
