te ; ; : sera ayer stig on at A n a : : rt 7 4 i . : an ; ; 2) if i om thes Y's as ted ete hhehict, SS . Soe bars yP ‘ . ss f : sua f: ai : 1 ‘ , tae fe : 2 _ PRCA ere tt = : tis tg ity He tite OU} r e mT oe g iste he tea : cstee Shad 3 aia ’ m by Eee ee ee ee ete Se) Brera hoes nny ek esg lees ah IMVETTS Sititis: STE a HARVARD UNIVERSITY. LIBRARY OF THE MUSEUM OF COMPARATIVE ZOOLOGY. 315K \ 3 GIFT OF ree, ae ete, Neovonbos 1 Animal Autobiographies. THE: RAT “But ask now the beasts, and they shall teach thee; and the fowls of the air, and they shall tell thee: or speak to the earth, and it shall teach thee: and the fishes of the sea shall declare unto thee.’—JoB xii. 7, 8. Bilin Bo hs Gal Wh y * y; { ANIMAL AUTOBIOGRAPHIES “LONDON ADAM-&-CHARLES:BLACK =F Tsay - = = ae G AN an, N RUA Rh we < 27 Mh | ¥ re) ie BY a RE Lie ip! Hy, Ha igs ah z ( MAE te aoe “ ; ne eo ~ i ah ad ee se Kons 4 a ‘ ye " ! ; >, ane ‘ ; ‘ | "i q 2 fam im 3 4 ; ‘ \ ii ‘ or e pie | A - Sig : { , " Aw , : . : Ya Yn Alon Ft aa wane ST er a af PANIES hy Bate . Nga, Met . < E 7 , y | i + e | | beh P t: WN) ; BD vey, i se vs 5 ' Jit Mao ae uh Riroweny ¥ ‘ NA MEO O Ws ALONE GERI L «. , . . ; , if ‘a * d nan ry a : 4 Ye ees AIEG TM Ry Ww ‘ ' ( : J } y 5 ¥ *h) . yew h a > 4 * ) v7 ‘ I ie ; = ys F a. u ae A 5 an : BH CN hi aa dite fey bt a . ‘i ve =n 4 — » = Wuo’s that knocking a rat-tat-tat ? Who can the caller be, Wiping his feet on my nice clean mat ? Peep through the glass and see. Queer old beast in an old gray coat ; Doesn’t wear boots or hat ; Bit like a weasel—bit like a stoat : Says he’s a rat, rat, rat. ‘Gi me a drink and a bite of cheese. Mornin’, sir! Are you well? Haven't a card, sir; but, if you please, Name “ Mr. Samuel.”’ Enter, Sammy, my ancient foe! Come, and a tail unfold. Not much point to it! ‘ Well, sir, no; Still, sir, Pll make so bold.’ CONTENTS CHAPTER I ‘THIS COMES HOPPING ” 4 a CHAPTER II “MY INFANCY’ - " F P s CHAPTER III SUMMER DAYS - J , gy CHAPTER IV ‘LET NOT HIS MISCHIEVOUS IMAGINATIONS PROSPER ” CHAPTER V . AT THE FARM - - - - CHAPTER VI UNREST AND REST - - - Ps CHAPTER VII ‘BY STREAM AND RIVER’ r CHAPTER VIII ‘A TRAVELLER’S TALES’ “ ‘ i CHAPTER IX ‘4 CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS’ - r re CHAPTER X ‘GROWING OLD’ = ‘ ‘ Z PAGE 50 75 100 125 151 176 201 226 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS By STEPHEN BAGHOT DE LA BERE MR. SAMUEL H. T. - : - - Frontispiece FACING PAGE THE OWLS CAME AND SAT ON TREES JUST OVER OUR HOLES THE MAN WALKED OFF WITH THE RABBIT IN HIS ARMS 3 I CAME ACROSS SOMETHING RATHER LIKE A SMALL CANDLE SHE SAID THAT THE HOUSE WAS NOT FIT FOR A LADY TO LIVE IN - - - eS e HE CARRIED IT OFF, CHUCKLING TO HIMSELF AND WHIST- LING FOR HIS DOGS a = - - THE LITTLE RUFFIANS CAME SWAGGERING INTO THE YARD, ALL ARMED WITH STICKS - ; + - - I SAW AT ONCE THAT I HAD FOUND THE RIGHT PLACE - RETRIBUTION NEARLY OVERTOOK ME = = - HE MANAGED TO BRING HIS STICK DOWN ON TO THE LAST INCH OF MY TAIL - - - = Se I HAD TO BE VERY CAREFUL NOT TO OVERBALANCE THE JUG < = = . - - HE WILL TICKLE THE NOSES OF THE SLEEPING DOGS = 34 56 72 90 120 146 170 208 220 246 THE RAT I ‘THIS COMES HOPPING’ Or course, we do not really hop at the very beginning of our lives. No rat is ever allowed to hop until he has done something which compels him to hop. I, for instance, have lost one of my fore-paws, and so I am what we call ‘a hopper.’ I believe that you call it ‘a marquis.’ At any rate, it means that I am a person of some considerable importance. In fact, I am even more important than that, because I have only half a tail. ‘Therefore you can never be quite so dignified as I am. A cousin of mine, who is writing the biography of a man, says that marquises do hop, because they live on port-wine, which gives them something called ‘ gout,’ and that this is almost as dignified as losing a paw. But he knows more about men than I do, and a very great deal more than ever I want to know. To be quite ] 2 THE RAT candid from the very beginning, I am inclined to dislike and distrust the whole breed of you, boys especially, and, as far as I can judge from your behaviour, you are not over-fond of us, either. ‘Which would I rather have—half a tail or only three paws? Is it a riddle? If so, take it away A. boy had the cheek to try to catch me in one once, but I bit the string in half before I went underneath, and then I got a fine herring’s head, and _ bolted before he could make out why nothing happened when he pulled the string. Oh, you only wanted to know, did you? Well, so long as you talk civilly, I am quite ready to answer questions. A paw counts most because it shows. Anyone can see that you are ‘a hopper,’ but you may be ‘a tailer’ for quite a long time before your friends know anything about it. My cousin says that the same remark might be made about marquises and tailors. Anyway, I am both, so it does not matter to me. My name? Ah, yes! you remind me of my manners. But introductions are rather going out of fashion among us. Still, [ ought unquestionably to have begun with a proper introduction, only I wanted to put something nice at the top of my first chapter, and I could not think of any good quota- ‘THIS COMES HOPPING’ 3 tion which would bring in the subject of names. Besides, if you begin at the beginning you are bound to go on to the end, whereas if you begin right in the middle you can then stop when you are tired, which suits me much better. I recommend you to practise that bit of advice when you are next set a horrid long lesson to learn. My present name is Mr. Samuel, H.T., and I do not think that I shall get much further. Let me explain. You will not think it a bore, will you? We don't have to explain much in our country: things have a way of explaining themselves. But names are just one of the things that do require a word of explanation. When I was born [ was called ‘Sammy.’ Lots of rats never get any further than that, because one year, as things go, is not a bad age for a rat. But, thanks to my mother’s teaching, and to a fair slice of luck, and, perhaps I may be allowed to add, to a certain amount of wisdom and intrepid courage on my own part, I reached my second year, and consequently became ‘ Sam.’ ‘Sam,’ of course, is a great deal more dignified than ‘Sammy,’ as I dare say you know. Your uncles, I should say, tip you nearly double as much when they happen to meet you. 1—2 4. THE RAT It is much easier to get safely through your second year than through your first, as I will show you later on, and I managed it all right, though I lost half my tail. That gave me the right to put T. after my name. This honour is not so very uncommon, and I did not swagger about it a very great deal. I only cultivated a bit of sideways action in my walk. Some rats will twist their stump first to one side and then to the other as they walk, but I call that rather bad form. Also, it is dangerous, and, for that reason more than any other, against my principles. I make all my principles to suit my own advantage, I fear. They do it ‘to be seen of men,’ as I believe you say, and that is just why it is dangerous, because if you flick things about you are seen of men, and then ‘whang comes something —half a brick or a great stick. Ugh! how I remember some of the escapes that I have had, even when I was sitting quite quiet! However, my third birthday came at last, and my name changed to ‘Samuel.’ I was now a person of some importance among my nephews and nieces, which was not quite such a bore as it may sound to you, for I had considerable luck in the way of losing a very great many of them. It was a bad year for the young and inexperienced, ‘There was ‘THIS COMES HOPPING’ 5 a sort of crusade against us in our parts. Farmers offered bribes for our tails. Much obliged to them, I am sure! Very considerate indeed! They got most of my troublesome little nephews and _ nieces, but they did not get me. I had long been intending to take a trip to town, so I seized the opportunity, and for once in my life turned my back on danger. I do not mean to say that I have never done so since. I should not be here to tell the tale if I had not made discretion the better part of valour now and then. Anyway, I went to town, and my fourth year saw me ‘Mr. Samuel, T.,’ and before a month of it was gone the loss of a paw made me H.T. So now, when you write to ask me how I am getting on, please address my letters ‘Mr. Samuel, H.T.’; and if you want any further address, ‘ Culverlea, Winchester,’ will do. Whether I shall ever reach five years I cannot say, and I am not sure that I very greatly care. It is a trying life, and, provided always that I am not shot, I am safe now to be a ghost for a year, and that is better fun than being a very old rat, I expect. One does get so battered about, you see. Well, well, I shall gain nothing by lamenting. You don’t care. If you saw me now you would throw something that might hurt my aged bones. 6 THE RAT Ah! I was forgetting my new name. I should be allowed to put a hyphen between Mr. and Samuel, and become ‘ Mr. — Samuel, H.T.,’ but I do not somehow like the look of it. I think I’d rather die. If I do happen to get over it and live to be six, then I shall be ‘— Samuel, Esq.,’ and one day of that is sure to finish me off. And then, hey! for the joys of ghost-land ! I have now more or less introduced myself to you, though I am afraid that there are many wrong ideas still firmly rooted in your brain. Never mind ; a vigorous and determined rat can root up most things, and I will have a try presently, if you will allow me. But first of all I want you to tell me one or two things that I can never quite under- stand. It is fairly your turn to talk, and if you have a drink about anywhere, a drop of milk for choice, or even water, it would give me great pleasure to drink to the hopes of a better under- standing between us, for I am a very thirsty animal, and a little talking soon gives me a dry mouth. I hope that my language is polite, and such as you are in the habit of hearing. Thank you very much: most refreshing ; not a headache in a hogshead, I'll warrant! Now I can listen in comfort. What I want to know, if you will pardon my ‘THIS COMES HOPPING’ 7 curiosity, is why you all persist in saying ‘ As still as a mouse. I have often heard you tell somebody that you will be as still as a mouse if they will only let you come with them. Why on earth don’t you say ‘as still asa rat’? No wonder that they keep on shaking their heads in that horrid way of theirs, and saying ‘ No, dear, not this time.’ They know as well as I do what ‘as still as a mouse’ means. A mouse has no more idea of how to keep still than you have—always fidgeting about and nibbling at something, and then scampering about because it is frightened at the noise which it made itself. ‘They never seem to learn, any more than you do, that it is only the silly little noises that count, and make people want to buy cats, and throw boots about, and set traps. A real big noise, like a great trampling thunder- storm, makes people frightened, and then they cannot be angry. I know all about that, and when I come into a house to stay for a few days I just keep really quiet for most of the time, and then, when I feel that I must have a scrimmage or else I shall burst in half, I make such a proper noise that people say that it is ghosts, or burglars, or tigers, and hide under the bedclothes until I have had enough exercise. You try next time whether 8 THE RAT my. way is not the best. And if you find that you get what you want better by making a really big noise, or else none at all, then mind that you always say ‘as still as a rat.’ That is one of the things about which I wanted you to give me some information. What! you didn’t get a chance of telling me anything, because I would talk all the time! Well, upon my word! Wasn't I telling you not to make a noise and there you go trying to jabber away before I get a chance of finishing what I was going to say! Half a cup more milk, please, wth cream and sugar. Listen- ing is thirsty work. Now, then, if you have quite finished, we can go on. I hear people—boys, at any rate—say ‘ Rats !’ in a nasty sort of way. I do not mean the disgust- ing tone of voice which they choose to assume when they want their nasty dogs to poke their noses down our doorways, and bark, and frighten all our poor babies out of their life. ‘ R-rats! they say, with about sixteen r’s in front and twenty t’s and s’s at the end; and then ‘ Yah-yah- boohoo! comes the yell of their impudent dog, right on my very doorstep. How would you like it yourselves if somebody brought a great stripey tiger and set him snarling at your door, showing ‘THIS COMES HOPPING’ 9 his ugly teeth, and wanting to seize you by the back, and worry you all to little pieces? Would not you want to call him names—the very rudest names that you could invent? Well, those are just my identical feelings about you. But it was not about that way of saying ‘ Rats!’ that I wanted you to tell me. You have another way of saying the word, when you curl up your noses, and put an m in front of the r, and a lot more a’s into the middle of the word. It looks to me as if you meant to say, ‘ You go along; I don't believe one single word of what you are telling me.’ Only the other day I was listening to a couple of boys—or, rather, I was not listening to the little villains, but I could not possibly help hearing them, they were talking so disgustingly loud. I wished that I could have changed places with them just for a couple of hours, so as to let them feel what it is like to live as I do. If I talked out loud, as they were talking, and made just as much noise as I pleased, I should be stiff and cold and dead in no time, and either eaten up or left about for everyone to kick and say, ‘Ugh! you ugly beast! Ugly, indeed! You would not look pretty, either, if you were knocked on the head and left to lie about just anyhow. 10 THE RAT ‘I.ook at those sparrows! one of them was saying: ‘If I had not had my catapult taken away this morning, just because I smashed a silly window with it, ’'d soon show you how to bring one down.’ ‘M-raats ! said the other; and his pal looked so cross that I feel sure that the word meant, ‘ You couldn’t hit an elephant if you tried! Can't think how you smashed that window. Must have been aiming a jolly long way in the other direction.’ Is that the sort of meaning which you would give to the word? And, if I am right, do tell me how it is that the name of my special branch of the family has come to be so used. I do not call it a very nice meaning for one’s name to bear ; it seems to me much the same as ‘ What a liar you are!’ and I have never heard a rat tell a lie in my life. Before you can answer questions which deal with my character and reputation perhaps I ought to tell you a little of my family history. My family is a very ancient one, but the records are not very clear. Everyone allows that we came over in the Ark in some form or other. I have very little doubt that most of you have, or had, in your arks a wooden animal which you called ‘a rat,’ but very often it might just as well be something else, and that ‘THIS COMES HOPPING’ 1] is precisely where the difficulty comes in. Nobody seems to know exactly how big the Ark was, though I am told that the measurements are given, or how many animals it would hold. The idea which is now generally prevalent in the highest scientific circles, to which, of course, I belong, is that there were two animals called ‘rodents,’ with long front teeth set close together, just like the pictures which Frenchmen draw of Englishmen when they want to be rude. These two rodents no doubt lived behind the wainscot, in order to save room, or somewhere up in the roof, and the other animals tried to kill them, and Noah set traps for them, but they were not such fools as to be caught. And when at last the Ark landed, and all the creatures came out, Mr. and Mrs. Rodent spread themselves out, so to speak, and became not only rats, but mice, and beavers, and porcupines, and squirrels, and rabbits, and a whole tribe of similar animals. The beavers, of course, say that they went in, and became rats and other things, and so say all the other members of the family, 1 suppose. But I have no doubt in my own mind that the place of honour in that well-built ship was occupied by two fine rats. But there is a much more important subject of 12 THE RAT discussion among us, and that is whether the brown rats or the black rats are the real aristocracy of the family. ‘There seems to be very little doubt that England was once populated with black rats; in fact, we ourselves acknowledge their claim to the title of ‘Old English Black Rat,’ and they are allowed, if they like, to put the letters O.E.B.R. after their names, which are otherwise like ours. But there are so very few of them now—in fact, I have never met one myself—that the question of precedence really does not matter much. If you never meet a particular kind of rat, it does not make the smallest difference whether he or you has the right to go into the hole first. Otherwise, of course, the question is a very important one, as sometimes there is not time for more than one to get in before a dog or a boy or both together come up, and then there is bound to be big trouble for those who are left outside. What they say is, that we are nasty vulgar interlopers, who have come across the sea from Norway or some other outlandish place (as a matter of fact, we came from India or China some time after the Flood), and that they could not stand our nasty common ways, and so went away. We only say that they were here, and that then we ‘THIS COMES HOPPING’ 13 came. Now we are here and they are gone. Therefore it seems highly probable (we don’t care to put it any stronger than that, for fear of hurting their haughty and aristocratic feelings) — highly probable, I say, that we have always had the right of going in first, and that they got killed off gradually, because they were left outside among the dogs and boys and sticks. ‘Which goes in first now? Which of wus, I suppose you mean? Well, that is rather a difficult question to answer. I do not think that we have any regular rule of precedence. If there is a rule, we all of us break it. The general sort of etiquette is that the rat who gets there first goes in first. It is more useful than most rules, because it teaches us to ‘do’ and not to ‘don't,’ because it teaches us to run fast, without any need of prizes, which you seem to require before you can learn to do anything. What we do punish very severely among our- selves is taking more time to get into a hole than is absolutely necessary, because the delay may cost somebody else his life. ‘Clear the line quickly’ is the public rule put up in the streets, and we teach our children a sort of private one, which is, ‘If you see that somebody else runs 14 THE RAT faster than you, don’t waste any time in running after him, but look around for another hole for yourself, and, if there isn’t one, go somewhere else as quickly as you can.’ Perhaps that looks rather a long rule to learn, but at any rate it is better than always learning ‘Dont’; and besides, when you know that your life is pretty certain to depend upon it sooner or later, it is wonderful how quickly you can learn any rule. You are sure to see one or two of your friends and relations killed every month because they have not learnt the rule quite thoroughly enough. You are lucky if they are not the persons who see you killed, and all that sort of thing is a wonderful help to memory. If you were told that ‘last into bed’ did not have to ‘put out the light,’ but very likely got his own light put out—that is to say, got spiflicated himself—you would be in a much greater hurry to get into bed than you are. I often wish that you would go quicker when I am waiting for the light to go out in order to get my supper. So far as I know, my family does not figure very largely in the history of the world. ‘The spiders are very proud of an ancestor of theirs who taught some ancient hero to persevere, and they have also ‘THIS COMES HOPPING’ 15 a story to tell of another member of their family who spun a web across the entrance of a cave, thereby saving the life of a distinguished fugitive, because his pursuers thought that he must have broken the web if he had gone in to hide. ‘The mice try to talk big about one of their progenitors who delivered a lion from the meshes of a net. ‘The ants never forget that they have been held up as an example to all sluggards. And the doves and ravens coo and croak about the Ark. But, according to our ideas, history is only stories, and not a nasty collection of names and dates; also it 1s not mere boastfulness, like the records which I have just quoted, but tales of good and tales of evil. Perhaps you will under- stand better what I mean if I tell you two stories out of what we call the history of our family, in one of which we did evil and in the other good. There was once a_ beautiful valley, full of meadows and cows and sheep, and fields of corn ali swinging and waving in the breeze. And in the middle of the valley there was a pretty village, where children played in the roads and ran in and out of thatched cottages covered with honeysuckle and roses. ‘There were pig-sties and cow-sheds and stables—fine places for the rats to live in during 16 THE RAT the winter, full of pigs with curly tails, and milky cows, and horses waiting to be taken out to work in the fields. And right in the middle of the village, where the roads went across one another, there was a church, whose bells made music all along the valley. Among the cornfields and meadows ran a stream, as clear as crystal, with a mill and a big wheel, covered with paddles, which the water kept moving and singing to itself, ‘ Click-clack—tickety-tack.’ That mill was always full of corn and flour, and the miller could never keep the rats away from it. He killed lots and lots of them, and still more and more came and scampered about at night, when there was no need to keep quiet. It was a beautiful mill. I know one like it now, and I sometimes go and stay there for a while, when the weather is cold and snowy, and the ground hard, and food scarce, and when all the owls and weasels are as hungry as they can be, and watch every- where for a nice rat to eat. Beyond the valley, unfortunately, as far off as you could see, there was a big town, with tall smoky chimneys and red, fiery furnaces, blazing and flaming like a pillar of cloud in the day- time and a pillar of fire in the night. And the ‘THIS COMES HOPPING’ 17 people in the town wanted to be sure of always having plenty of clean water to drink, so they built a big wall called a dam, right across the top of the valley, over the course of the stream, and far up the two sides. And the little stream stopped running down the valley, and all the little trout gasped and wriggled in the tiny pools that were left, till the village children came and caught them and ate them for supper. ‘The wheel also left off singing, because there was no water to turn it round, and the people had to draw water from their wells. And all the while, at the top of the valley, beyond the dam, the stream kept on flowing and flowing up against the great strong wall, and it gradually grew into a beautiful lake, which filled up all the top of the valley, and pushed hard against the dam, while the little waves came jumping up against the shore, and all turned into singing fairies as they reached the land. And the people in the town made big pipes to bring the clean water down among the furnaces and chimneys, whenever they wanted it, and there was always plenty to come, because the stream kept the lake full. And then one day came a clever little cousin of mine, the water-rat. I suppose that he was part of (9) o 18 THE RAT us when we were in the Ark. If there was to be any spreading out of the family afterwards, some of it was bound to turn towards the water, after seeing so much of it for forty days. Men have come to regard him as a harmless little lunatic, who does not eat trout, after all, but only lives on lettuces and water-radishes and cress. Personally, I can never see why he should not have a trout now and then, if he fancies one. But he cannot swim quick enough. He just pops about the banks and some- times swims across the stream, trailing behind him a long stalk of water-weed, which he eats, sitting up on his hind legs; and then he scratches his head, as a way of saying grace, and pops into his hole. That is the little fellow who came to the banks of the lake, and grew and multiplied, because nobody took the trouble to kill him. And one day he made a hole in the dam itself, and burrowed deep into it right under the water, and the water came in after him, and ate its way further and further in. He was not drowned, because he burrowed right up to the top and got out, but the water burrowed down- wards, and kept on eating deeper and deeper, till at last it came through on the other side, with a spout and a shout, and the whole lake pushed so hard that, with a great heave and bulge, all the im- ‘THIS COMES HOPPING’ 19 prisoned water got free, and rushed with a mighty swoop down the beautiful valley. It lifted the poor old mill mght off its legs and tossed it about everywhere, and all the village was swept away. Was it not awful? And it was all the doing of my clever and harmless little cousin. Of course, lots of us were drowned too, though we can swim very well, for we were stuffed up in the corn-stacks and pig-sties, and could not get out in time: and even if we had got out, we could never have contrived to swim in all that monstrous whirl of water. We call our cousin a national hero all the same. That is the end of one story, and I have just time for one more—a pleasant one this time for a change. It begins badly, but everything comes right in the end. There was once a prison full of dark and gloomy dungeons, where people sat in chains and boundless misery, and ate their meals on the floor, because there were not any chairs or tables. That would have been nice enough if the floors had been clean, but they were hideously dirty. Very few of the prisoners had done anything wicked: they were only there because somebody who did not like them had caught them and put them there. It was quite 2—2 20 THE RAT hopeless to think of trying to escape, because there was only one tiny window in each dungeon, far too high up for anyone to be able to reach it and climb out. The worst dungeons of all were underground, and the damp trickled down the walls, and covered them with a green and loathsome slime, which oozed off the stones and made a nasty carpet on the floor. And, to make things still more hopeless, strong chains of rusty iron were locked round the prisoners’ ankles. People did not live very long in these dungeons, as you may well imagine, though sometimes their friends contrived to come and take them out just in time. It seems strange, does it not, that anything should voluntarily go into one of these dark and gloomy dungeons. And yet history says that the rats went; but then, of course, they could always get out again when they chose, which makes all the difference. The walls, which looked so massive and solid, were really hollow in places, hollow enough for a rat to climb about, unless extreme old age had paralyzed his limbs. This did indeed happen sometimes, because these dungeons, though they were terribly deadly to the prisoners, were very safe places for rats to live in. ‘The gaolers considered ‘THIS COMES HOPPING’ 21 them as part of the tortures which the prisoners had to undergo, and so never tried to set traps for them ; and many of the prisoners called them their best friends, because they were the only friends whom they could possibly have. And so these rats often lived to extreme old age. Now, it so happened that into one of the very worst of these dungeons a kindly-hearted and gentle prisoner was suddenly thrust. He had been a great knight in his own country, and everyone loved him, because he dealt out equal-handed justice to rich and poor alike. No rich man could buy from him the right to cheat his poorer brother. But on one day of black misfortune he was conquered and taken captive by his wickedand tyran- nous rival, who cast him into prison and put heavy chains upon his limbs, knowing full well in his evil heart that death would soon rid him of a man whom he both feared and hated, because all men loved him. Twice a day only did the gaoler thrust into the gloom of his squalid cell a plate of bread and a jug of water. And twice a day out came the rats, and danced upon the floor, and asked for food. And the kindly knight called them all by names of his own invention — ‘Mutton-chop, and ‘Beef-steak,’ and ‘Plum-pudding’ and ‘ Mince-pie ’—just to remind 22 THE RAT him of what a real dinner ought to be, and he threw a crumb of bread, now to this one and now to that. Poor fellow! he could ill spare even the crumbs from his scanty meal, but he told the rats that their cheerful presence did more to keep him alive and in his right mind than many loaves of bread. For in those lonely cells the prisoners often went mad, and with the strength of madness tore their chains from off their limbs, and so died, beating with their naked hands against the pitiless walls. But at last his friends collected a great army and conquered his cruel rival, and came with torches in their hands, but with small hope in their hearts, for many days had now passed away. And judge of their surprise and delight when they found him well and cheerful ; and they smote the fetters from his imbs, and carried him tenderly away, and laid him softly in a room full of flowers and other delights, to call him back to the joys of life. But his cruel rival they haled off and cast into the self- same dungeon, where, because he had a mighty dread of rats, he went mad and died. But the kindly knight passed a law in his land that for three months in every year no rat should be killed, except it were by accident, which is perhaps as ‘THIS COMES HOPPING’ 23 much gratitude as could be expected, seeing that he was but a man after all. Doesn't it end nicely ? And now, having introduced my family and myself to your notice, I must take leave of you for a moment, for the night is dark and squally, and few enemies will be abroad, and I may venture to take a small walk, to quench my thirst at the pond, with a reasonable hope of returning safe and sound, to continue my narrative with a greater sense of intimacy and mutual confidence. II ‘MY INFANCY’ As you would expect, after what I have told you about our ancient and aristocratic ancestors, we manage our birthdays on a different system to most of the commoner creatures. We have no particularly fashionable time of the year for birth- days. I will say this for your credit, that you share this peculiarity with us. My birthday was on February 14, and some cousins of mine were born on May 31, and some more on September 10, and I believe some more about December, but one soon loses count with so many relations. One blessing is that you cannot possibly give them all presents, and so you keep most things for yourself. Also there are no rules about brothers and sisters being always nice to one another, which are so difficult to keep. You just bite anyone who gets in your way, or who looks as if a bite would do him good, or who looks as if he would not bite back ; and, contrariwise, you help anyone who looks nice, 24 ‘MY INFANCY’ 25 or who seems to be in particular need of help, and there is no one to say that you have no business to talk to common little children. My birthday was at rather a good time of the year, because I was big and strong when the winter came, and it was beginning to get warm when I had to leave the nest. Of course, one cannot stay in it for very long, when there is sure to be a new family coming soon, who will want cosy lodgings ; but I had to leave it even earlier than I expected, owing to an accident, as I will tell you presently. It is very difficult to say exactly which is the best month for a birthday. I heard one of you erumbling and growling once because his came at Christmas, which enabled people to mix his Christmas present and his birthday present all inte one, and he did not seem to think that they allowed enough for the mixing. Anyway, it is much nicer to have two presents a long way apart than only one all in a lump. But that sort of thing does not matter to us. What we have to think about most is whether we shall live or be killed, which is a far more interesting question than whether we shall get one big present or two little ones. With us it is always a question of one 26 THE RAT big present, the big present of life, or none at all, and really, with all the extraordinary dangers that lie about to catch us, one has to regard life as a very big present indeed. ‘Hardly worth having,’ do you say? I cannot agree with you. I have enjoyed every bit of it, even the dangers, in a way. It is the only thing really worth having which I possess. And, that being the case, I don’t call it very nice of you to be always trying to take it away from me. How- ever, that is too large and difficult a question for us to discuss. You may go on trying as much as you like now, partly because I fancy that I am a bit too clever for you, unless you have an extraordinary genius for setting traps, and partly because I have had nearly enough of it. I cannot do the things that I once found so easy, and my teeth are getting out of order, and sometimes [ think that I am almost ready for a good steady smack with a stick, or for a terrier’s teeth in my back, as long as I can die with my yellow old tusks well fixed into his lip. I will wait a bit longer, at any rate, until I have told you enough about myself to make us better friends, if possible. I keep trying to get back to my birthday, and then something always gets in the way. Do vou *MY INFANCY’ 27 ever dream that you are a railway-engine? Don't be surprised at my knowing all about such things, because I often take a run along the line, to look for things that have dropped off the trains, when a big frost makes food scarce. I once even got a ride in a truck that had some corn sacks in it, and they never knew that I was there, any more than I knew that 1 was going on a journey. I was scared when they started off. Luckily, they only went as far as the next station. I had one of my many narrow escapes when they came to unload, but they were so surprised when I jumped out that I contrived to dodge them all. Fortunately, there were no dogs or sticks. They could only kick at me with their clumsy boots, so that it was not really very difficult to escape. But it took me a long time to find my way back again, as I was not so used to travelling then as Iam now. Ever since then I dream about engines, and I always want to go straight on, and then I come to a horrid bumpy shunting-place, and off I go some- where else, and have to keep on coming back again. You did not know, perhaps, that rats had dreams. What a lot you have to learn! How were you to know? Well, dogs have dreams, for I have seen 28 THE RAT and heard them on the hearthrug in front of the fire through a crack in the boards. Nasty beasts! kicking their legs about, and squeaking, and thinking that they are catching us, I expect. And if dogs have dreams, why in the name of common- sense should not we have dreams too? Dogs and rats always go together, too much together some- times, far too close for my taste, though I once made my home under the kennel of one for a time, because I knew that nobody would think of looking » for me there. Wasn't that clever ? Why did not he catch me? How well I know the silly sort of questions which you ask! How could he, when he was chained, and the kennel so heavy? Besides, he was what is called a sporting dog, whose trade was to smell out grouse and partridges, and he did not bother his old head about the smell of rats. I doubt whether he even knew that I was there. He left very nice bones lying about sometimes, which his great clumsy teeth had not half picked, and I was very sorry when circumstances compelled me to change my quarters. I had the place all to myself, but a lot of other rats came prospecting, and took up their lodgings in the stables and sheds, and I knew what that would mean, so I took my departure ‘MY INFANCY’ 29 before anyone came with ferrets and sticks, to make things a little too lively for my taste. Now, did you ever see anything like it? ‘There's that silly old birthday of mine gone dodging out of the way again. It is just like another sort of dream that I often have. I dream of a beautiful herring’s head, not too fresh, the sort of head that you can smell from some distance without taking the trouble to sniff too hard. This beautiful and smelly head is hanging not quite out of reach, if I stand on my hind legs, in the silly way which you seem to prefer. You must know really that it is not the right way to get about, because when you are babies you always begin by crawling about the floor, and if you were only left to yourselves, you would go from crawling to running like we do, instead of waving your fore-paws in the air; and you are so proud of it, too, that you go and teach your horrid dogs to do the same. However, it 1s useful to us sometimes, when we want to reach anything, like the beautiful herring’s head in my second kind of dream. I so nearly get it time after time, only I cannot quite make my teeth catch hold. It just slips away when I think that I have got it at last, and swings back ‘bump’ against my head ; and then I get cross and jump at it, and it 30 THE RAT only swings away further and comes back harder, till at last I take a huge and monstrous jump, so big that I seem to be flying, and when I get to the place where it ought to be it has gone and dis- appeared, and I come down ‘splosh! And some- times that wakens me up, and sometimes the ‘splosh ° turns into a river, and I go on swimming and swimming, till I think that I cannot swim a single stroke further with any of my paws; and then I remember that I have a tail, and I try whether I can swim with that, by wriggling it round and round in the water, like an eel, and then I go so fast that I soon come ‘ bump’ into the bank, and that generally wakens me. Let me see! I know that there was something very particular that I was thinking of telling you. I wonder what ever it was! Something to eat? No! I know that I had not got as far as that, and I don’t think that it was anything to drink either, because that is just as far. Upon my word, I am growing terribly forgetful. It was so awfully particular, too. I wonder if you could possibly help me? I hardly expect that you can, because, if I cannot remember, I feel pretty sure that you cannot, either. My memory is generally so good. lremember, one day——- What did yousay? Itis ‘MY INFANCY’ 31 very rude to interrupt, just as I was going to tell you something else, and I have a good mind not to tell you at all now. Yes, to be sure! How very stupid of me, and | have been trying to get back to it for such a long time. My birthday! Let us make quite sure of it this time. Say it over a lot of times, like twice seven are seventeen, twice seven are seventeen— birthday, birthday, borthday, brothday. Why, broth was what the hounds had in the kennels where I lived. What? getting away from ‘birth- day’ again! Drat that silly old birthday of mine! We always say ‘drat’ instead of ‘bother.’ It 1s so like our own name that nobody thinks of stopping us. Now I have got into three stories: that birthday, those kennels, and ‘ bother.’ Which will you have ? The kennels won't take a minute ; but the birthday ought to come first, as I had to be born before I could live in the kennels, don’t you see? I might forget the kennels if I don’t put them in now ; and I will really promise, if you will remind me very hard, to go straight on to the birthday afterwards. The only way will be to go off with a great rush, and then we are sure to keep straight. In the kennels, as you will insist on having that story first, when I am wanting all the time to tell 32 THE RAT you about my birthday, I lived for a long time under the floor of the place where the hounds slept. And they fed the hounds on the flesh of very old horses, which had to be killed because they were so very old and tired that they did not want to live any longer. And I used to go out at night and gnaw the bones that were lying about, and eat the meat. It was beautiful meat, with lots of smell in it, and it made my teeth very deadly and poisonous ; and one day a terrier dog nearly got me, before I could get into my hole, but I turned and bit him just as he was going to catch hold, and then squiggled down my hole, while he was thinking how brave a rat I was. And two days afterwards they brought him and buried him, with his head and neck all puffed up, and not a bit like a smart little terrier, and I heard them say something about ‘those nasty rats being as poisonous as vipers.’ I killed a viper once who thought that he was going to kill me, by Jumping on his back as quick as lightning when he struck at me. I jumped far quicker than you can jump, though perhaps you would like to try. You can be the rat, and Johnny or Sally can be the viper. I bit him right through the back of the neck, and he was just going to die when I ate most of him. ‘MY INFANCY’ 33 Now I can begin to tell the story backwards way, and then we are sure to get to the birthday at last, and I shan’t want any reminding. After they had buried the dog which I had killed with my deadly and poisonous teeth, they came to the holes which we had made, and sent down the most awful smelly smoke. It came crawling right along the passages, and we could not endure it for 2 moment, and were obliged to make a bolt for it. You see, it was not anything that we could bite, so we were not so very cowardly. I was very lucky. I wanted to run first, as usual, but there were three other rats in the way. And while they were smacking these three with their horrid great sticks I got off safe, being rather too quick for them ; and they had not brought any dogs, for fear of our poisonous teeth. It does not always pay to go first. ‘Go in first, come out last,’ is my rule now. And so we come backwards way to my birthday quite easily, and as that is the very beginning, I cannot possibly get past it on to any other story. I cannot think why we found it so difficult. I must remember that way of remembering. It was on February 14, and I told you that it was a good day, because I got big and strong before the winter. You see how easy it is to remember when one 3 34 THE RAT really tries. But it was a bad day for another reason. Young rats have a silly time in their lives, just like you have, when they think that they know better than anyone else, and eat soap, and do all sorts of stupid things, in spite of people telling them that they are sure to be sick, and wish that they had eaten something more wholesome. And they go out at the wrong time, just as you do, only you catch a cold, while we catch nothing—something catches us. ‘That sounds like the answer to a riddle. ‘What is the difference between a boy and a young rat? How will that do? ‘One catches cold when he goes out at the wrong time, and something else catches hold of the other.’ Silly old riddle! I hate riddles of all sorts. Well, my silly time came just wrong, because the owls had hatched out their young ones, and wanted lots of nice tender little rats for nursery food, and they came and sat on trees just over our holes; and whenever a fat young rat went out for a walk, contrary to the advice of his parents, down came a great fluffy owl with claws as sharp as needles, and just about as long, and sometimes there was one tiny squeak and sometimes there wasn’t, and away went Mr. or Mrs. Owl to the old crow’s nest in the fir-tree, and another young rat THE OWLS CAME AND SAT ON TREES JUST OVER OUR HOLES. *. * TE - a , ‘Ff bt AT fn, he be J ee . ray « a cde A] > “ask: sm take Fee 7 : a | g Pia f ‘ * ¢ ’ a rer? ipl: o< » a r a J = * 7 5 : » Faw 3 Lo or « : re. 4 . + ; 7 , Me 7 : ' > » i - F ‘MY INFANCY’ 35 was eaten up. I got so frightened at the way in which my companions vanished that I only crawled about very quietly in the hedges, except on very dark nights, and even then only very late, long after your bed-time. | Our nest was in a nice warm bank on the side of a wood, which was covered with primroses soon after I began to grow. It was rather a good place to choose, in spite of the owls, because the wood was full of pheasants, and the keepers put down plenty of corn all through the hard weather—beau- tiful yellow Indian corn—and sometimes raisins, and there were drinking-troughs full of water, which was never allowed to freeze. Nothing could have been nicer or kinder. And they did not try to set traps for us, either, because, as I heard them say once, where there are plenty of rats the foxes and the owls don’t bother much about the young pheasants. Of course, just now and then, as a treat, we had young pheasant for dinner, but it was generally only a sickly one or even a dead one, because the others can run very fast, and their mother is always on the look out to protect them, and it takes a very big rat to catch a young pheasant when the mother is at hand. So we were left in peace to keep the foxes and 3—2 36 THE RAT the owls amused, and they both loved us dearly, especially the foxes. It is very nice to be loved for one’s own sake, but not, perhaps, quite so much as the foxes loved us. There was one great red fellow, who had given the hounds many a fine run in the winter, and had always managed to keep his splendid brush safe in spite of all their efforts to catch him. He used to come and lie watching our holes, night after night, and got a lot of us to crunch up with his great white teeth. He kept the owls off, however, and he was not quite so dangerous as they were, because I soon got to know his smell; and he was not quite so quick as an owl, nor so deadly quiet. I can hear a hawk a long way off, but an owl comes swooping down without an atom of noise: it has such a lot of silent, fluffy feathers. I was out one night in my silly season with one of my sisters, when down came an owl. Luckily, he took my sister, but I give you my word of honour that the first thing that I heard was poor Sal’s squeak as the claws went in. So she never lived to be Sally, or Sarah, or Mrs. Sarah. I ran so fast that I was quite out of breath when I got home, but the others guessed pretty easily what had happened without my telling them. I did not think it quite kind of them to say that they wished ‘MY INFANCY’ 37 it had been me, because Sal was so nice and quiet and useful in the house. I am afraid that it was my fault, perhaps, because I persuaded her to come out, when she really did not want to come. I told her that she was a ‘molly-coddle,’ and that I be- lieved that she was afraid, and then, of course, she was obliged to come. Poor Sal! I remembered her little squeak for two or three hours at least ; however, I am sure that she was tender to eat, because I had a nibble at her myself once, when she was in my way. I feel sure that Mr. Owl chose the right one. I forget now how many we were when we were born—six or eight, I expect, as that is the usual number. Jolly little pink beggars we were, quite blind and with blunt noses, and our nest was a gorgeous heap of soft stuff of every kind that you can possibly imagine. It must have taken mother days and days to collect. I rather fancy that she must have been down a rabbit’s hole to steal some of the fur which Mamma Rabbit strips off herself to keep her young ones warm ; but there were lots of soft grass as well, and bits of paper torn up into strips, and sheep’s wool and cow’s hair. I know where she got the last ingredient, for there was a big post not far off our holes which the 38 THE RAT keepers had put up to catch the owls, and the cows came and rubbed themselves against it, and they rubbed so hard that they rubbed off a lot of hair. Yes, I knew that you would ask how a post can catch an owl. I can’t say that I like owls, but I did think that post rather a low trick, and I fancy that now even men call it ‘playing the game rather low,’ which is their way of saying ‘savouring of cruelty,’ I suppose. No owl that ever was hatched, or hawk either, can resist perching on the nice smooth top of a post, especially when it is just opposite some rats’ holes or rabbits’ burrows. So the keepers put a post in some such place, and on the top of it a nasty round trap with iron teeth, just the size of the top of the post and tied to it with a chain or string. And when the owl comes flying along and sees the nice tempting post, and sits down on it, ‘snap’ goes the trap and catches him by the leg, and down tumbles the trap with the owl in it, and the poor beggar hangs there for hours, perhaps, before someone comes and killshim. Well, it is an unkind world, and I don’t think that men seem to try very hard to help on the kindness when they do such things as that. Do you, now? Per- haps you even wish that you had not asked me to tell so horrid a story. Don't ask for things, then, ‘MY INFANCY’ 39 unless you are quite sure that you want them. You will find that a very good piece of advice. My father was a pretty good father, according to our ideas. ‘That is not saying a very great deal, however, for fathers count for very little among us. Very few rats ever see their father, and a good thing too! for he is just as likely as not to eat one of his own children if food is scarce, and sometimes his wife helps him. Just fancy how you would feel if your dad strolled into the nursery or school- room one day, with his hands in his pockets, whistling a cheerful tune, and then, when you all ran up to him, hoping to be taken out for a nice safe walk, suddenly seized and devoured the tenderest and juiciest of you! If that sort of thing was liable to happen to you any day, you would not be so anxious to be made of ‘sweets and spice and all that’s nice.’ ‘Snips and snails and puppy- dogs’ tails’ would be much better, but I doubt whether even that would save you, if he was as hungry as Papa Rat often is. I heard great bumpings and squealings going on in the house next to ours one day, and I went to our door to listen, and presently out came a great big ‘buck rat,’ as we call our gentlemen, licking his lips, and looking half-cross and half-pleased. I did 40 THE RAT not let him see me, and soon a friend came up looking very thin and hungry, and they began to talk of the difficulty of getting a really nice little dinner, with these late frosts, and our next- door neighbour said that he had just managed to get one of his own kids, but that he had had a hard fight for it, and that ‘the old woman down there’ had bitten him badly. So that was why he was licking his lips, partly because he was enjoying the taste of a tender young rat, and partly to take the pain out of the bite. I have had a good many children of my own, two or three hundred perhaps, but, as far as I can remember, I have never eaten one, though I often thought of doing it. It is not a bad way of punishing them, after all, in case they should ever be naughty. I heard a man say once that he always beat his boy whenever he saw him, because he was either going into mischief or coming out of it. If he had only eaten him at once, just think what a lot of trouble would have been saved! ‘Little boy, little boy, come and be _ beaten,’ is what you have to learn, but we learn, ‘ Little rat, little rat, come and be eaten,’ and I think that our lesson is the harder. Our mother was a dear, so soft and warm to cuddle up against, when we were little tinies with ‘MY INFANCY’ 41 blunt noses ; and so brave and careful, too, when our fur had come and our noses were growing nicely pointed, and we wanted to poke them out into the world, which smelt so sweet, and was really so dangerous. Sometimes I wish that I could not smell so well, and again sometimes I am very glad that my nose is so reliable. In one way smelling is the root of all evil, for it takes you into traps and all kinds of danger. You have no idea how hard it is to resist a really nice smell, even though you know as well as possible that it means danger. I have grown to be so careful now that I always run away when I meet a really nice smell, or when a really nice smell meets me: I don’t mind which way you put it, but perhaps the latter is the better, because a smell not only meets you, but very often runs after you, when you run away, so fast that it must have hundreds of legs, like those crawly things in the garden. Draw me a picture, if you can, of a rat running away, and a very nice smell running after it. You must draw them both running as fast as possible, and mind you make the smell very nice indeed, or the picture won't be true. That is the danger of smells, but some- times they are very useful. I told you, for instance, how I could smell the fox, and a man 42 THE RAT smells nearly as strong, and is really a lot more dangerous, because I know pretty well what a fox is going to do, and how he is going to do it—first creepy-crawly, and then with a bounce and a jump— but you can never be sure of aman. He is always inventing something new. ‘Therefore, whenever I smell the man-smell [ am always extra careful, because something is liable to happen. ‘Sit quite still for a few minutes,’ is the best rule, ‘and don’t move even the tip of your tail.’ Luckily, I have also learnt the smell of iron, which is a great help. [ cannot tell you exactly what it smells like : some- thing like cold teeth mixed with jumpy springs. Now do you understand better? Also there is generally the smell of cheese or herring or bacon- rind mixed up with the smells of man and iron. The combination of those three is sure to mean a trap. On the whole, I think that my nose is more useful than dangerous, now that I have thoroughly learnt to obey it when it says ‘Go away,’ and never to listen to it when it says ‘ Come along.’ ‘Noses cannot talk,’ can’t they? Yours can. Yours says ‘ Atishoo,’ whatever that means, and your dad’s says ‘ Boowatcher,’ which is just as difficult to understand. Mine says ‘Stop,’ or ‘Come on,’ and therefore [ would much rather ‘MY INFANCY’ 43 have mine than yours. Besides, I call mine much prettier. Mine does look like part of my face, while yours—well, I could make as good a nose by sticking a lump of mud on a barn-door. That’s what I think of yours. [ am sorry. I will apologize at once, before it becomes too difficult. When people begin to say rude things to one another it is quite time to talk about something else. But it was really your fault for saying that my nose cannot talk, when it really talks to me all day. However, let us change the conversation. One day we were all playing outside the hedge with mother, all except sister Sal, who had gone away to feed the young owls. ‘That sounds just as if they were her pets, does it not? [ call it rather a nice way of saying that she was dead and eaten. We hardly ever use the word ‘dead’ if we can possibly avoid it. It is too horrid, and so common and vulgar, too. You can always distinguish a really well-bred rat by the way in which he describes an accident. ‘Where’s Jimmy to-day ” asks somebody. ‘Feeding the hungry’ is a nice answer when somebody has gobbled him up. ‘How's your wife to-day?” asks somebody else. ‘Dancing in the pig-sty ’ would mean ‘ Caught by the leg in a trap.’ ‘Singing in the larder’ is a way 44 THE RAT of saying ‘Squeaking in a cage.’ ‘Lying down with a bad pain in her back’ can mean either ‘Killed by a stick’ or ‘ Nipped by a dog,’ though we generally call the latter accident ‘ Playing with the puppy. You see, we are hardly ever ill, so that there is very little chance of people failing to understand. Perhaps you could now tell me how to say prettily and politely that your sister was dangling in the air with a noose round her neck, or that Billy was squashed quite flat under a large stone. Mind you make him quite flat. I could do that easily. I must tell you my answer: ‘Playing at being a pancake.’ Now you make a better and politer answer if you can. To go back to my little story. We were all playing outside the hedge in a grass field. It was very early in the morning, but not quite early enough, for the birds were awake, and suddenly we saw a horrible hawk hovering over us, with his wings all quivering with excitement. He was there all in a moment, with his savage head and beak pointing straight down at us. No wonder that his wings quivered with excitement if he was at all hungry, for we should have made a lovely breakfast for him. It looked as if he had only to choose the fattest, and I believe that the fattest at —_——— “MY INFANCY’ 45 that time was this very child who is now talking to you. I was uncommonly plump, at any rate, in those days, and I felt sure that I could see his eyes, with little gold beads all round them, pick me out for the first breakfast dish. ‘Run for the hedge! squeaked mother. ‘ Run quick ! Andrun wedid. I got there first, as usual, and precious glad I was when I felt the grass rubbing against my fat little sides. I nearly squealed when a thorn pricked me. I felt sure that it was the hawk’s claw, and that I was done for. Once inside the hedge and safe, we peeped out, and saw the brave mother having a terrible battle with the kestrel. Luckily, it was not a sparrow-hawk, or she would not have had much chance: they are so much quicker and more savage. I expect that a sparrow-hawk would have whisked away with one of us before ever we could have reached the hedge. But the kestrel only blundered down, and found nobody there but mother, and she was quick enough to jump out of the way of his ugly claws, so that he only sat down on the grass and looked about to see where his breakfast had gone. He must have been rather surprised when his breakfast came at him with a jump, and took a mouthful of feathers out of his neck. Just fancy if 46 THE RAT such a thing were to happen to you, how startled you would be; if you sat down nicely in your chair, and then ‘ Bang! came the plate of porridge and bit you in the neck. Unfortunately, his feathers were too thick for her to catch hold properly, or she would have taught him better manners. Four or five times he jumped up into the air and tried to pounce down on poor brave mother, but she was always too quick for him and jumped out of the way ; and every time that he just missed her, she jumped back at him, and did her best to catch hold, but she could only get feathers. I almost forgot the deadly nature of the contest and laughed, when I saw her spluttermg the feathers out of her mouth. And then a man came round the corner, luckily without a dog or a gun, and the hawk had to fly away and look for his breakfast somewhere else, and mammy popped back quickly into the hedge, rather exhausted, but very proud of her victory. We always call it a victory in our country when we are not beaten. When we win, it is ‘a glorious victory,’ and when we lose but get safe away, then it is ‘a moral victory. When we are beaten and eaten too, then one of the polite expressions comes in, unless we call it ‘a slight reverse.’ “MY INFANCY’ 47 One more battle did our good mother fight for us, and that was the last, and it is rather a sad story to finish up with; but I am bound to tell it to you, or the chapter of my infancy would not be complete. We had gone for a sleep in our nest—the only three of us who were left. All the others had— what nice expression will do for them all? ‘Taken up their abode elsewhere’ might do, though it is not very poetical; ‘Gone to see how the violets and primroses grow ’——-I don't know: you try. Mother, as usual, was drowsing in front of the nest. Suddenly we were awakened by the sound of a hideous conflict, and we knew from the smell that a weasel had come down our passage. We lay there trembling, and listened with all our ears. The bumpings and scufflings meant that neither could catch hold; but we were terribly afraid, because a rat wants room to fight really well.