A Book of Nimble Beasts

It was really much better that time, and though Winnie could not pick up the tune, everybody else seemed quite pleased with themselves.

"That's better!" said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife. "Now again!"

But before the words were out of her mouth the great hall clock chimed in, Ting—Ting—Ting—Ting——

"Midnight!" screamed the Great Green Grasshopper's wife. "What will become of us?"

Ting—Ting—Ting—Ting——

"It's fast!" cried Winnie: "I know it's fast. I put it on myself for getting up tomorrow."

"Are you quite sure?" said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife.

"Quite sure," declared Winnie; "it's five minutes fast at least."

"That's a great relief to my mind," said the Great Green Grasshopper's wife; "but, of course, we must stop at once."

Indeed, the Crickets were already packing up their instruments, and the last thing that Winnie remembers was the Great Green Grasshopper's wife hurrying the little Skipjacks off to bed.

THE PYGMY SHREW

(BOXING-DAY)

FEW know him and the careless eye may never see him. He is so small,—that four of him just stop a mouse-hole; so light,—that ten of him just tilt an ounce. Yet, if you search the files, you find him eminent. The Pygmy Shrew in Cornwall! The Pygmy Shrew in Kent!! The Pygmy Shrew in Rutlandshire!!!

Thus fame is garlanded round mystery.

Man's kingdom is brick-built and parchment guarded. The beasties have a nobler heritage. Fence your broad acres as you please, yet they shall quietly share them, paying you naught, and taking what they will. Water and air and land are theirs by prior, nay primeval, right. So shall you bend before their quality, and, for their lineage, you shall respect them.

Something had brushed across the Pygmy's nose. He shook off three days' sleep in three half-seconds. Where was his tail? Sleeping, he swings it up across his face, and gathers all four feet within its shelter. His tail was there, but in its waking-place, behind him. Then something must have moved it. He stretched his neck and sniffed, long wheezy sniffs which ended in a shiver; then he peered down the shaft. He jerked back to avoid an avalanche—a blinding dust-cloud, a rattle of small stones, and, in the midst, two common shrews close locked.

But I go on too fast.

The stump is close against the rookery-fence. It is a stump of quality, a residential stump, a maze of winding roots and secret chambers, wherein field-folk may live without acquaintance. There is a fellow to it in the meadow, another fronts the rabbit mound, and all three hold like tenants.

The woodmouse first, round-eyed and debonair; then the bank-vole, he who is half a mouse, with chestnut coat, broad ear and estimable tail; lastly the ranny-noses; the common shrew—a velvet-coated pepper-tempered gallant; the Pygmy, who is common shrew refined—purple and orange ripple in his fur, and him my Lady Sunshine loves the best of all.

The Woodmouse First, Round-eyed and Debonair

All live together, yet apart, for, under ground, the stumps are intricate. The roots twist right and left and back upon themselves, and, over and beneath them, are the runs. Most are blind alleys, but a few creep on, and strike the upper air. The mice and voles reserve the lowest depths; they must be near the water; moreover they can tunnel where they will. The common shrews live higher, scratch two-inch levels where the rootlets aid them, and trust to their quick ears. The Pygmy takes what stouter beasties leave; and that is how the Pygmy's tail was moved—his sleeping-hole, the mould of some long-fallen stone, abutted on the shaft.

That two shrews should be fighting was quite usual. Shrews fight to keep their limbs in trim; they fight in play; they fight in deadly earnest. A veteran shrew is scarred in every part of him; great scars like thumbmarks, where new growth of fur has failed to draw up level with the old.

Yet even shrews need open ground to fight on. The Pygmy waited till the dust had cleared, then peered into the darkness. The scuffling of them could be plainly heard; and, sharp above it, rose their vicious war scream. The Pygmy knew what that meant—a bolt for upper air and honest fighting. He crouched back prudently. They rattled past once more in quick succession, the foremost gibbering his distress, the hindmost dumb. But this was dubious measure of their quality, for, where there is bare tunnel-room for one, one needs must be in front, and, then, his only weapon is his voice.

He took the Right-hand Surface-run

The Pygmy sprang up after them. He is the burrows' jackal, and takes an interest in serious fights. Once on the level ground he paused, made three small casts, then took the right-hand surface-run.

He was quite right; the combatants had passed that way. It was a zigzag run, but unimpeded. A drooping grass-stem tangle formed its roof, and, through long use, its sides were brown and withered, as though some noxious snake had glided through, and poisoned every growing blade it touched. The Pygmy knew it end to end, and knew that, where it broke, close to the elm, there was a moss-grown clearing. So he took matters quietly, and, lingering as the fancy took him, had supped before he reached the fighting-ground. The common shrews were feinting for an opening. He knew them both by sight. One, a brown-coated, thick-set scaramouch was neighbour to him in the stump. The other was a meadow-shrew, of lighter build and colour, but longer and full match in weight. The Pygmy rubbed his nose between his paws—a pretty fight was promised.

He could See as well as Hear

And others seemed to have got wind of it. The grass-stems flicking to and fro betrayed them. On every side he heard short, fluttery mouse-steps. Above he caught shrill squeaks and whimperings; a bat was busy with the filmy moths. Below the ground seemed shivery—that was the mole. The Pygmy heard and scented him. He crawled discreetly up the trunk, and so could see as well as hear. In the green tangle round were flitting specks—the voles and mice assembling in hot haste. From these his eye passed to the combatants. The grey shrew's ear was torn, and from it hung one drop of blood. This was the lodestone.

His Rival, feinting, flicked his Tail too Far, and, in a twinkle, it was seized

Up from a moss-clump shot a woodmouse nose, and, at the back of it, two round black eyes looked murder. The Pygmy caught the chatter-grince of teeth; the bat still threaded needle-notes among the leaves; the leaves themselves were whispering; but clear above these short, crabbed, fretful sounds, he heard the steady rumble of the mole. The thing perplexed him. Could the expectant ring of mice be deaf? The pair that held the stage were too absorbed to notice anything.

The Grey Shrew leant against the Trunk and panted

The brown shrew lay half sideways fronting him

With Tangled Tails and rounded Straining Bodies, commenced to Spin

It was the brown shrew who got home the first. His rival, feinting, flicked his tail too far, and, in a twinkle, it was seized. The grey shrew swung himself upon his back, and kicked with all four paws. But this was waste of strength. The shrewmouse has forked teeth, teeth that will hold a slippery rounded beetle, much more a soft square tail. So with necessity the spur of valour, he twisted round and nipped the brown shrew's foot. Both straightway bit their hardest; the twinge made both give way. They toppled backwards squealing. The grey shrew leant against the trunk and panted; the brown shrew lay half sideways fronting him, and, on all sides, the ring broke into chatterings. The Pygmy, trembling with delight, screamed out encouragement, but no one heard his screams. The bat dived headlong from the leaves, skimmed in between them and shot up once more. The woodmouse crept two paces forward, then backed abruptly, for they were at grips. Each nipped a loose flap of the other's skin, and, bracing all four feet, tugged at its prize. They tugged until they toppled sideways; then with claws fastened in each other's fur, with tangled tails and rounded straining bodies, commenced to spin.

That is the way of shrewmice, much pother and slight wounds. Their fights are seldom mortal. Rather, they die for want of fighting. Their valiant souls misfit them.

So this hot-blooded, strenuous pair spun as one living ball across the ring, over and over, twist and twirl, upside and down, faster and faster, until the spin itself released them. Then they sat back from one another and wobbled like spent tops.

The third round started dully. The brown shrew, shaken with exertion, lay on his back the better to refresh himself. The grey shrew, just as weary, crept to an eminence above and eyed him wickedly. The ring was all impatience.

Both soon revived.

Then They lay Head to Tail, and Tail to Head

The Field-Voles on the Skirts of it could only see between their Betters' Ears

The brown shrew twisted corkscrew-wise, and landed arched upon his toe points. The grey shrew shot beneath him like a whiplash. Then they lay head to tail, and tail to head. The ring drew closer. The field-voles on the skirts of it could only see between their betters' ears. The bat came to a halt and stared. The Pygmy climbed two inches up, and was rewarded. For now both combatants saw red.

The Bat came to a Halt and Stared

They hurled themselves at random, they bit at random, they bucked and somersaulted, they spun entwined in loops and twists, in double-knotted tangles, in sinuous figures of eight. Now one was on his back and now the other—shrewmice reck little which way up they fight. Now they sped screaming up the trunk and all but reached the Pygmy; now they dropped earthward with twin thud, and grazed a red vole's nose. So without pause or respite. They tore and scratched and gripped and pulled and wrenched and tugged and jumped and squealed until–it was an earthquake, a rounded dull upheaval, a split and crackle of the moss, a sputter of dry dust, and, in the midst, like some queer fungus growth, the mole's red nose.

The Pygmy Climbed Two Inches Up

"Flick!" went a woodmouse tail, betokening danger. The amphitheatre emptied in a moment; voles helter-skelter into cover, bat loose into the sky. The Pygmy tumbled earthwards, shot forward, paused, whisked up again, and crept behind a flake of bark.

Now One was on his Back and now the Other

The two shrews lay amazed upon their backs, and in between them wagged the intruding nose.

Slowly it lengthened. Two naked paddle-feet passed on the surface, and, like some clumsy fish that quits its element, the mole plunged into air.

He missed both shrews, who, dashing right and left of him, entangled him in double-minded purpose. Rested the Pygmy, shrunk to a rigid wisp of apprehension, ear-straining, muscle-tautened, behind a flimsy screen of bark.

The mole lurched slowly forward, swaying his noddle-head from side to side, nosing each inch of ground. Blood had enticed him upwards, and blood he meant to taste. It seemed as though short measure must content him—a smear upon a grass stem, a drop upon a pebble. But presently his nose flung up; on either side of it the velvet starred, leaving two loop-holes for his pin-head eyes; he snuffed and peered about him; his brush-tail jerked and quivered; a snarl laid bare his teeth; and then, his instinct mastering circumstance, he charged, with swift alternate strokes, straight at the Pygmy's shelter. Had his eye seen? Had his nose smelt? At least he had a visible allurement—a half inch of the Pygmy's tail. The Pygmy curled it promptly, but, even as it moved, the mole was thundering at the bark. The Pygmy squeezed himself a half inch further, and this half inch meant life. The mole had bored his snout into the breach, and by a forward wriggle brought his teeth to bear.