A Book of Nimble Beasts

The Lesser Horseshoe Bat in his winter Sleep

He is hanging head-downwards and is completely shut up in his own wings, which, you see, are beautifully folded

You have to watch bats very closely before you can tell one kind from another, and I expect some of you will be surprised to hear that there are more different kinds of bats in England than there are of any other kinds of animals. There are, at least, twelve different kinds of English bats, and, as bats now and then seem to get blown over the sea from France, or be brought in the rigging of ships, quite a strange foreign bat may turn up sometimes.

THE BLUNDERS OF BARTIMÆUS

(MICHAELMAS DAY)

Bartimæus

BARTIMÆUS was simply mole-tired (which is as tired as a beastie can be), and he lay on his side, with his nose tucked into his waistcoat, and dreamed of Nydia, fretfully. Nydia was half a field away, dozing in a snug fortress of her own, with four fat helpless babies to attend to, and not a passing thought for Bartimæus.

Five times within twelve hours had Bartimæus sought her. Five times had he traversed his main-line tunnel, turned eastward at the junction by the fence, and, breasting up the up-grade full tilt, thrust an inquiring nose at Nydia's nest. Why shouldn't he? Why should he stand on ceremony with four fat, squirmy, wrinkled, hairless infants?

But Nydia had been mightily offended. Each time she had boxed his ears. Each time she had bitten him. And so he had retreated; not for fear, but for black shame—black shame which he had brought upon himself; for Father Moles may not approach Mole babies—that is Mole law, and that has been Mole law since Moles first dug.

Long journeyings these to Nydia, a hundred yards each way at least, but not of length to tire him. He had found time and energy for in-between excursions. One to the mill-house orchard—there staring hillocks proved it; one to the sacred croquet lawn—he left his marks here also; one to the mid-field partridge nest, which meant one egg the less.

He headed straight for Water

A cheerful strenuous day's work; on which, but for the finish of it, he might have slept at ease.

Nydia's last bite and buffet had been real.

She swept her right hand cross-ways, baring her teeth in line with it, and screwing round her shoulders for the swing. Then she lunged backwards viciously. This meant a dragging wound which hurt, and Bartimæus had bitten too, and, as ill-luck would have it, bitten a baby. Nydia flung at him squealing, and, when a Mother Mole flings at you squealing, one prudent course and only one is open.

His nose was bleeding as he started home, and he was hot and thirsty. He headed straight for water. A ten-yard down-slant brought him to the brook. He drank his fill, then, tempted by the coolness, set off swimming. He swam as deftly as a water-shrew, high out of water, with his stumpy tail cocked upward in his wake.

THE BANK ROSE STEEPLY OVER HIM

He reached the farther side without mishap, rustled the moisture off his fur, then started climbing. The bank rose steeply over him, but here and there a naked root gave hand-hold, and, shoulder-hoisted over these, he scrambled to the level. On this he travelled easily, using his paddle-hands as sweeps, and scuttling with his feet. From the brookside half-way across the field, and almost to the dried-up middle-ditch, bent grass-stems marked his trail. He checked close by the alder-stump, nosed at the ground, and started digging.

Perhaps he scented supper.

The alder-stump is populous still. Its core, now sapless, lifeless touchwood, is riddled through and through. Here moths-to-be, and flies-to-be, and beetles-to-be have spent their youth and fattened. Virtue still lingers in the roots, and, hidden by the forks and bends of them, quiet lives consume, or bide their time. Now and again a human hand "collects" them, now and again a mole, the skilfullest pupa hunter in the world.

Yet Bartimæus was not really hungry—he dug more from ill-humour, wrenching the grass-tufts sideways with his teeth, and slashing fiercely with his hands, until he forced an entrance for his shoulders.

Then his whole action changed.

He stabbed his nose into the soil, and, twisting from the shoulders, screwed it home. Then he drew back his head, turned over sideways, and, with one shoulder and one hand thrust out, gained purchase where his nose had been, and scratched at the soft earth. As one side tired he turned about, and thrust its fellow forward. Sometimes he lay upon his back, and heaved and squirmed and shuffled. Sometimes he screwed his way, his whole frame twisted spirally, half prostrate, half supine.

He drove a six-inch downward slant, then, for one yard, a level course, then upwards half a foot again. His pink nose broke the surface crust, snuffed, and dropped back. The first stage was accomplished, but only the first stage. His tube was choked and littered end to end. He backed nine inches through the loose, reversed, ducked down his head, and charged. Part of the rubble caked as he drove past, and part was swept before him to the outlet. It spurted through and sprayed upon the grass. Six charges raised a mole hill, and left a half-yard tunnel clear. His hands compressed the sides of it to smoothness.

He made a cave and four runs leading from it. Three plunged deep down, and hillocks marked their course. The fourth was near the surface. Its flimsy roof, pressed upwards from below, and dotted end to end with spits of soil, cast a betraying shadow.

It was good feeding-ground. In it were worms innumerable, slow-minded worms which held their ground too long, and footless leathern-coated grubs, grubs of beetles and flies, and eggs innumerable, grasshoppers' eggs, earwigs' eggs, and eggs of smaller fry, some massed in sticky clutches, some dispersed.

He toiled and fed alternately. He made a nest inside his cave, a mass of leaves and grasses dragged down into his surface run (to thrust his mouth out was sufficient), and pulled or pushed into their proper station.

This done he slept, his head tucked down between his hands, his hind feet curled up under him.

All but his ears slept soundly.

*****

One-Two—One-Two—One-Two. Twin footfalls almost over him, and with them a soliloquy deep-toned.

"Comin' right down valley they be. That's them water-works. Down goes springs. Up comes nunkey-tumps. I'll get this one for sure. Here! Tatters!"

Out like a loosened spring leapt Bartimæus, and plunged into his surface run. Half-way along it he stopped dead and listened, the tip of his pink nose thrust through the roof.

Man's booted tread he knew full well; man's voice he knew, but something else was coming,—something which lilted pit-a-pat, something with yielding velvet pads, something four-footed. It danced towards him, louder still and louder, till a hoarse whisper checked it. "Steady you fool! Here good dog! Steady!"

The pink nose dropped. Only one grass-blade stirred, but Tatters saw it.

His every muscle tautened as he pointed. His hair stood stiff upon his back, his eyes stared fixedly.

Only one grass-blade stirred, but Tatters saw it

For half a minute he stood tense; then Bartimæus breathed, and at his breath a grass-stem twitched and flickered.

Tatters upreared and poised himself, stayed poised a moment, then, with a vicious dropping lunge, stabbed with his forefeet downward. His muzzle followed instantly, and screwed and ploughed along the run until the weight of roof upcurled checked further progress.

Then only did he raise his head and look back shamefaced at his master. He had completely missed.

"Tatters, you'm grown old, I reckon—like your Master. Never mind, lad, we'll have 'im yet. We'll put a trap down tea-time. Come off it now! Think you can scratch him out?"

Tatters was burrowing tooth and nail, uprooting grass clumps with his teeth, drumming with his forefeet, and showering sods between his hind feet backwards. He raised a wistful, mud-stained face and whined, shook himself doubtfully, started, turned back for one more scratch, then galloped to his master's call.

And Bartimæus had been burrowing too—opening a bolt-hole which should close behind him, passing the dislodged earth beneath himself, and piling it to cover his retreat.

Tatters had all but pinned his body, and that would have meant death to him. Tatters had pinned his tail, but, with a wriggle, he had freed himself, out-distanced the pursuing nose, dived through the nest, and twisting sharply right, reached the west outlet shaft. Fist over feet he scuttled down and screwed himself into the blinded end. He bored two yards zigzagging, then paused for breath. He pricked his stumpy whiskers up, starred the grey fur about his eyes, spread wide his pinhole ears. He was quite safe. The ground before, behind, and on all sides of him, was dead. Ten minutes passed before he moved, then he worked quickly upwards, and broke the ground beneath a clump of thistles.

"They've gone," said a small piping voice above him.

The nose of Bartimæus, pink and quivery, had issued first, his bullet head had followed, then his great hands and shoulders. The sunbeams played upon his coat, and waves of limpid shimmery blue crept softly to and fro in it.

"They've gone," the Harvest Mouse repeated.

"Excellent!" said Bartimæus. "I can't see who I am talking to—this awful glare!—but it will pass—and meanwhile I can guess at you. You are a mouse; a small mouse, with sharp-pointed toes, a blunted tail, and a warm-orange coat."

"How did you know that?" said the Harvest Mouse.

"I heard you, and I felt you, and I smelt you," said Bartimæus. "You ran up just before I put my nose out. I heard your tail flick after you. I heard the leaves crack underneath your feet. I felt and smelt your colour. If you lived underground like me, you'd notice things."

"Give me the sunshine," said the Harvest Mouse (its beauty doubled on her coat). "If you could see what I can see you'd go back home."