A Book of Nimble Beasts

"How's that?" said Bartimæus.

"It's near the fence," the Harvest Mouse replied, "you'd better run and look at it."

"It would take a lot to scare me," said Bartimæus, and puffed his little chest out. His chest was like the mouse's back, warm orange.

"This will scare you," she said. "You strike from here towards the sun and you can't miss it. It throws a shadow at you."

"I'm off," said Bartimæus, and straightway started burrowing.

The Harvest Mouse stood up full length, and watched his ripple fading into distance. Then she dropped down to earth.

"That was a quite nice Mole," she said, "it really is a pity."

A surface run is child's play to a Mole. He bores it almost at his surface pace. The roof springs ready-moulded from his back, and lengthens like a paid-out rope behind him.

The fence was reached so suddenly that Bartimæus stubbed his nose against it. He bit and tore it, thinking it was root, then, finding it too hard for him—it was red teak—worked ten yards back and thrust his head and shoulders above ground.

The Harvest Mouse stood up full length

The sun was low behind the fence. The shadow of it lengthened out towards him and, in between its clefts, crept dazzling gold-red rays. For full ten minutes Bartimæus' head swayed nodding side to side. Now and again he twitched one hand impatiently. He fought for a clear vision. Each time he faced the dazzling streams of light, his head fell worsted sideways, and minutes passed before he could look up again.

At last their brilliance faded, and, somewhat to the right of him, a stunted bush took shape.

The stem of it loomed dark in the fence shadow; the leaves were darker still—and there was something queer about the leaves. They were too large, too black, too solid.

The breeze could hardly stir them, and, when they stirred, it was as though they spun.

No more could be determined certainly. He left his run bent on a closer vision.

It was no bush at all. It was a thick-stemmed alder-branch staked in the soil. The leaves were moles—moles like himself, or rather moles which had been like himself. For all were dead. Their bodies dangled pitifully, or, with poor shrivelled outstretched hands, spun as the breeze compelled them.

It was too much for Bartimæus' nerves. He turned about and fled, crashed luckily through his own tunnel's roof, and ran as though mole-ghosts were at his heels.

And something ran ahead of him, and reached the thistle half a yard in front.

The Harvest Mouse drew herself up indignant

"Did you find it?" said the Harvest Mouse. She sat at her old station nibbling.

"You beast," said Bartimæus, "you heartless little beast."

The Harvest Mouse drew herself up indignant.

"You're blinder than I thought," she said.

"It was a mean trick," muttered Bartimæus.

"It was a good turn," said the Harvest Mouse.

"Now listen, for I know this meadow end to end. It is no place for Moles. Ask the red-coated Meadow Mouse. Ask the Pygmy Shrew. Ask any one who really knows. Worse things than dogs come into it."

"Weasels!" said the Meadow Mouse

"Weasels!" said the Meadow Mouse. "Oh, never wait for weasels in a run. I really thought that you were one behind me." This to Bartimæus.

"Cats!" said the Pygmy Shrew. Vainly did Bartimæus strive to see her—a sorrel leaf concealed her, head to tail.

"Worse than dogs. Worse than weasels. Worse than cats," said the Harvest Mouse. "TRAPS!"

"We Harvest Mice are never trapped, and stump-tail mice are only trapped by chance—or their own folly. I saw one once. He walked inside because it rained in torrents. Down went the door, and he was drowned, with cheese afloat all round him."

"Cheese is good," said the Meadow Mouse.

"Cheese is glorious," said the Pygmy Shrew.

"There you are. You'd go anywhere for cheese," said the Harvest Mouse. "One bite—a snap behind—and then where are you?"

"I'm out in front," said the Pygmy Shrew.

"You'll try that once too often," said the Harvest Mouse.

"Now I hate cheese—the smell of it spells danger. But there are traps and traps—and the worst traps are traps with nothing in them."

"That's so," said the Meadow Mouse.

"You can smell them, can't you?" said Bartimæus.

"You can smell them if you go slow enough," said the Harvest Mouse, "but when do you go slow? Now mark my words. It's just about your sleeping time. You'll sleep for your full hour, then you'll wake hungry. You'll rush full tilt until you reach your slant. You'll rush down that, you'll rush along your gallery. Won't you now?"

"P'raps," muttered Bartimæus. He had withdrawn his nose below, and sleep was stealing over him.

"Well, don't!" said the Harvest Mouse.

"Don't!" said the Meadow Mouse.

"Don't!" said the Pygmy.

"Don't what?" said Bartimæus in his sleep.

"Don't rush!" said the Harvest Mouse. "Don't rush. Don't rush!"

*****

He slept for his full hour and woke to find the Pygmy at his side. "It's in your centre gallery," she whispered. "I've slipped right through it twice."

"My centre gallery?" shouted Bartimæus. "My centre gallery? I'll have my centre gallery clear."

He started burrowing straightway.