A Book of Nimble Beasts

Where the Weasel met the Mice

The mice had made quite a beaten track from one hole to another—this you can see at the top of the picture. The other tracks are the weasel's, except one, which shows the imprint of a mouse-tail

It was quite exciting to follow that little Weasel's trail in the snow. I came to where he had startled a moor-hen and to where he had startled a rook, and to where he had had a splendid game chasing mice. I am showing you a picture of this, and you will notice at once the line down the centre of one of the tracks, which is made by Mousey's tail. Another of the pictures shows you two mouse-tracks running to separate mouse-holes, which I was very glad to know about, and which I don't think I should ever have seen but for the tell-tale snow. A Rat's track is much the same, only larger; and a Stoat's track is the same as a Weasel's, only larger. A Hedgehog does not often come out in the snow, but he does sometimes and leaves a very smudgy track behind him, for he drags his fur along the ground.

Where The Weasel met the Rook

You can see where the Rook's wing hit the snow

Two Mouse Trails leading to holes in the snow

Snow shows one much more than mud, but, unless it is of just the right softness the prints in it are apt to be splodgy, and I don't think you ever get so perfect a track in snow as you sometimes do in mud. The pictures of the Vixen's and the Otter's footprints will show you what I mean. A Vixen's footprints are smaller than a Fox's, and a Fox's footprints are smaller than most people think, indeed a Fox is a smaller animal than most people think. I have a little wire-haired terrier whose footprints are much larger than those of a Vixen. At the same time it is not very easy to distinguish a Fox's track from that of a small dog. Generally a Dog's claws make their mark as well as the pads, and this does not often happen with the Fox; but I think a better way of telling the difference is to remember that a Fox's pads are more oval-shaped than a Dog's. You will always, I think, be able to tell an Otter's footprints (some people call them the Otter's seal) by their size, and by their leading to or from the water. Usually the claws can be clearly traced and sometimes the webbing of the feet as well. I have never seen clean-cut Badger's footprints—all I have met with have been very broad and splodgy, more smears than patterns—and I have never seen a Marten's trail at all.

The Fox's Footprints

Footprints tell us a good deal of what is going on about us, and so do "runs" in the grass, and "runs" in the hedges. But, of course, there are other things to be looked for. Often one finds the remains of beasties' meals, nuts for instance. Nuts with clean-cut round holes in them have been gnawed by Dormice, nuts with jagged holes by Red Meadow Mice and Wood Mice, nuts split clean in half most likely by Squirrels. Otters leave half-eaten fish about sometimes, and scattered broken eggshells tell you where Stoats have been running the hedgerow. If you notice where you find these things and keep your eyes open, you are sure in time to see what you are looking for.

And the last thing that Winnie remembers was the Great Green Grasshopper's Wife hurrying the little Skipjacks off to bed.

THE GREAT GREEN GRASSHOPPER'S BAND

(CHRISTMAS DAY)

"I BEG your pardon!" said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife.

"I think I ought to beg yours," said Winnie politely.

Perhaps, however, you would like me to begin at the very beginning. Very well, then; but you must remember that, for most of it, I can only tell you what Winnie told me. It all seems to have happened between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. On Christmas Eve, our Cricket, who lives in the kitchen behind the hot-water pipes, had started chirruping as usual, and I had gone into the library, and hunted out an old, old Christmas book and started reading to my small friends a story which began with a cricket singing against a tea-kettle. Then we had had a snapdragon, and then the waits had come round, so everything had been as Christmassy as ever it could be. Just as the waits finished Winnie had got into bed and snuggled herself up. All this I can vouch for myself, for I was there all the time, and I can remember how good the snapdragon was, though I did not eat quite so many raisins as one little girl. However, as she said afterwards, "Even if I did eat thirty, Father, it was quite worth it."

So much for the true part of the tale—now for the magic. Winnie tells me that she never went to sleep at all! The waits and the cricket and the snapdragon and the kettle were all mixed up in her head, and the snapdragon had turned hungry and was trying to snap up the waits, and the kettle was puffing like a little traction engine, and in between the puffs there was a sad little chirrupy sound which she thought must be the cricket. It seemed only kind then that she should slip out of bed, listen on the landing, and creep down to the kitchen to see how the cricket was getting on. She found him sitting on the hearthstone and watching the people in the fire going to church.

Winnie tells me that She never went to sleep at All!

"I can't attend to you now," he said, "I'm just going out."

Winnie had half expected him to speak, but she was a little frightened all the same, and a little curious too.

"Do take me with you," she said. "Where are you going?"

"Where am I going?" said the Cricket in a surprised tone. "Why, it's Christmas Eve!"

"Yes, isn't it lovely!" said Winnie; "and to-morrow there'll be presents. But where are you going?"

"I'm going to be a wait, of course," said the Cricket. "I've been practising all the evening. Listen!"

He ducked his head and lifted up his wings, and a chirrup fluttered out of them and ran all round the dresser. It was a chirrup! It wriggled in between the plates and dived into the soup-tureen, and climbed the tea-cup handles, and danced upon the saucers, until the sour deal boards, which had had all the softness scrubbed out of them (and were cross-grained to begin with), felt little thrills of pleasure running down their backs. Then it climbed up the wall and rattled the dish-covers, and at last it died away with a little squeak inside the coffee-pot.

"What do you think of that?" said the Cricket triumphantly.

"It's beautiful," said Winnie; "but where are you going?"

"You'll see presently," said the Cricket; "and I wish you wouldn't chatter so. You nearly made me forget him."

The Cricket was sitting on the Hearthstone watching the People in the Fire going to Church

"Forget who?" said Winnie.

"Our drummer," said the Cricket. "Keep still—I heard him a minute ago."

There was a long pause—so long that Winnie almost screamed, for there was nothing but the clock-tick to listen to.

Then something joined the clock-tick—One-two-three-four, pit-tip, tip-pit, one-two-three-four, pat-tap, tap-pat (just like soldiers a long way off, as Winnie explained), and presently the drummer himself appeared. He was a very small, squat, round-shouldered beetle, and he came out of a hole in the beam which ran across the ceiling.

The Pair of Them dropped … on to the Edge of the Kitchen Table

"What a nuisance it all is!" he yawned. "I was just going off to sleep when I heard you. Is there no one else who can drum?"

"No one who can drum like you," said the Cricket, which is far the best way to answer these questions.

"Very well," said the Beetle, "but my wife must come too," and the pair of them dropped with two little flops on to the edge of the kitchen table. Then the clock chimed in—one-two-three-four, right away up to eleven.

"Shall I come too?" said a mean little oily voice from under the coal-scuttle. Winnie could just see the Cockroach's whiskers making quivery passes in the air, and she sat down and drew her nightie round her feet as tight as ever she could. She was quite relieved to hear the Cricket's answer.

"Of course not," he said; "you never played anything in your life."

"It's all the same to me," said the Cockroach. "I've given up those silly meadows long ago. Good-night, lunatics!" and he drew his whiskers in and disappeared.

"Was that eleven?" said the House Cricket, taking no notice of his rudeness. "We've no time to lose then. Come along!"

Winnie climbed up on his back as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and the two Beetles climbed up behind her. The drummer Beetle started playing at once—one-two-three-four, pit-tip, tip-pit; one-two-three-four, pat-tap, tap-pat—and the whole four of them sailed up the chimney. It was not hot (as Winnie explained), for the fire had burnt very low and that was what had beaten the kettle, but it was sooty, and she remembers quite well longing to see the clean, white snow on the roof. The Cricket went up crab-wise—a little jump to one side and a little jump to the other; so he took quite a long time to reach the chimney-pot, and when he crawled on to the edge of it the snow was all gone. ("That was the queerest thing of all, Father," said Winnie "there were leaves and flowers and sunshine, and it was just like summer.")

"Now hold tight," said the Cricket, "while I unpack my wings."

This was quite a long business, for the Cricket had to keep moistening his fingers, and Winnie and the Beetles had to keep crawling up and down his back, so as not to be in the way. At last everything was ready, and the Cricket poised himself on the edge of the chimney, spread his wings wide apart, and slid into the air. Winnie was just a little frightened at first, and she put her head down close to the Cricket's neck and shut her eyes and dug her fingers into the chinks of his back; but presently she felt that it was no good being frightened, for they were going quite smoothly, and the Cricket's wing-covers were high up on either side of her, so that she could hardly have fallen off if she had tried to. Soon she felt brave enough to raise her head very carefully and look about her. The kitchen chimney was some way behind, the great elm on her left, and the river close in front. Just before they reached the river the Cricket's wings buzzed like blue-bottles, and she felt they were going upwards. Then came another long, gentle glide, and the Cricket landed on the blackberry hedge at the bottom of the meadow.

"You must all get off here," he said.

Winnie stepped off his back on to a slippery thorn, missed her footing, and fell on the top of the Great Green Grasshopper's wife.

"I beg your pardon!" said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife.

"I think I ought to beg yours," said Winnie politely—which is where the story began some time ago.

"I beg your Pardon," said the Great Green Grasshopper's Wife

The Great Green Grasshopper's wife was more amused than offended.

"Don't mention it," she said. "I suppose you've come to help us, and I'm very glad to see you. It is really most unfortunate, but I couldn't possibly let my husband come—the first Christmas Eve he has missed for years—but, as I said to him, 'If your leg's frostbitten, you're much better in your hole.' Don't you agree with me?"