On the top of a hill about two hundred and fifty yards from the
birthplace of Mr. Screech Owl, was a hazel thicket covering twenty acres.
It had been wasteland, for years used only by the few coyotes and foxes
that remained in the neighborhood, till finally an enterprising farmer
bought it, mowed the brush, plowed the ground, and planted it in corn.
This corn was cut up, and the shocks stood in the field all winter. In a
hollow under one of these a pair of bobtailed meadow mice had made a large
nest of corn silks and grass, in which a certain warming March sun saw
seven dainty pink mouse babies. One of these, Boblets, is the hero of this
story.
The family grew rapidly. In a fortnight they were covered with a coat
of soft fur and their newly opened eyes sparkled like beads. Now they were
old enough to begin to eat the corn that had been stored up before the
fodder was removed, and it was well they could; for a few days later nine
little pink brothers and sisters appeared, to demand the attention of
their mother. The older children, who were not yet half grown, were not
now neglected and driven from home, but accidents are so frequent and the
enemies of the bobtailed meadow mouse so numerous that they must either
increase very rapidly or become extinct. So the two families of babies
slept together in their nest. Now their mother did not need to spend all
her time there in order to keep the little ones warm.
Summer was rapidly approaching. Each day was a little warmer than the
day before, and the farmers were beginning to plow. With this pleasant
season came the first thrilling experience of young Boblets' life. It came
suddenly and without warning, at a moment when the little family were
enjoying a peaceful hour.
Mrs. Mouse was lying in one corner of the nest, the babies were
feeding, and the older ones playing about, when all at once a rumbling,
tearing, dreadful noise was heard coming nearer and nearer. Instantly
Mother Mouse bounded into the deep underground passage leading from the
nest, and the babies, true to instinct or previous training -
who shall say which? - clung fast to her and
were saved. The older children were all turned out by the plow, and
promptly killed by the plowboy. No, not all; for one, Boblets, more wise
than his brothers, was the first to spring into the deep hole at the
approach of danger. At the very bottom he had lain down, remaining
perfectly quiet. And there he stayed, not a muscle of his sensitive little
body quivering, till his mother went out to view the situation, and
returned with the report that all was well. So it is every day among the
wildlings. The one that hesitates or makes a mistake pays forfeit with his
life. This is why we find no stupid wildlings, and every one is a hero
when we come to know him.
A passageway was still open in the furrow, and the wise mother soon
found a place of comparative safety under a fence rail, just outside the
field. It was only about a quarter of a mile around the field, and the
plowboy never stopped once; but when, on his next round, he reached the
spot where the nest had been, Mother Mouse had carried her babies to a
place of safety fully fifty yards away. This was the more easily
accomplished because they clung to her teats, and so allowed her to drag
them over the ground. Boblets was old enough to follow along behind.
I mention this because the bobtailed meadow mouse is the only variety I
know that carries its young in this way, and with these little creatures
it is often absolutely necessary to move the whole family at once, without
a moment's notice, in order to save their lives.
In the nest of a common barn mouse I once found eight babies about
three weeks old and seven not over three days old. Both parents were in
the nest, so both knew that I had found them. I withdrew for about fifteen
minutes, and waited to see what would happen. When I returned, not a
mouse, old or young, was in sight. Only the squeaking of the disgruntled
babies revealed the location of the new nest. Investigation showed that
they had been carried about twenty feet, then down a sill about ten feet,
and placed in a small but neatly made nest of corn silks, in a crib of
corn. As these babies were carried one at a time, the old mouse taking
them in her mouth as a cat does her kitten, it was a marvel to me that the
transfer could be accomplished in so short a time. Even now I wonder if
they did not have the nest ready made to use in case of emergency.
But I have digressed from my story. As soon as the babies were placed
safely under the rail, and Father Mouse had found them, he set to work to
make a new home. He had lived longer than most mice, and had made no
mistakes, but he made one now. His old home had been in soft ground, easy
to dig, and he did not take into consideration the fact that it had been
protected by the shock of corn fodder. So he dug a hole in the open
ground, hollowed out a place for the nest, lined it with grass, and soon
had his babies safely housed again.
One night two weeks later a skunk who lived in a rock quarry not far
away was out looking for his supper, and chanced to strike the trail
leading to the new home. He followed it, and was soon digging into the
nest. Only one entrance to it had been made as yet, so the mice were
clearly caught. Their little hearts thumped in terror, and they began to
dig as fast as they could, but it was of no use.
Their home had been made in ground that was too soft for safety -
it was as easily dug by their enemies as by themselves. Besides, there was
now another family of babies, which the mother refused to leave. With a
flourish the skunk was upon them, and then- At
that instant young Boblets, who, fortunately for him, had begun to dig in
the right direction, jumped out past the side of the enemy. Guided by that
same good spirit of the wildlings that had once bidden him lie still, he
ran for his life, and escaped unhurt, but without father, or mother or
friends- homeless and alone in the wide, cruel
world.
Though Boblets was not experienced, he was fully grown, and a fine
specimen he was- large, burly, thickset,
short-legged, and with a splendid coat of thick, soft, doveblue fur. His
tail was short and stubby, his whiskers were grizzled, and his whole
appearance was as fierce as that of a mouse could well be. He was not fat,
as the family's store of food had been left behind when they fled from the
cornfield; but this very leanness was to stand him in good stead in the
days to come. A fat mouse can run neither so fast nor so far as a thin
one.
For several days Boblets wandered aimlessly about, having all sorts of
narrow escapes from birds and beasts and creeping things. Once he heard a
low soft rustling in the grass. He had never heard it before, but it spoke
danger to him. Immediately he dropped flat, and lay as still as the stones
themselves. The rustling came softly nearer, and presently a garter snake
lifted its ugly head among the grasses not half a yard away, but Boblets
never winked or trembled, and the snake moved off in another direction.
On another occasion he was saved from making a meal for a mink only
because he saw the creature an instant before it saw him. In a breath he
made a dash for a near-by log, and entered a friendly opening in its side,
large enough to admit him to safety, but too small for the mink to follow.
One day when Boblets was out looking for something to eat, a hawk saw
him. The great bird was all attention in a moment, and hung perfectly
still only about thirty feet above his head, scanning every inch of the
ground beneath for another glimpse. Finally he spied him, and descended
straight and swift as an arrow. But Boblets saw, too, and by one supreme
effort managed to spring into a clump of brush as the disappointed bird
closed his talons on a tuft of grass not an inch behind him. It was a
close call, indeed, but Boblets had escaped!
Every day Boblets was adding to his store of wisdom by new lessons in
the school of experience. He was learning to stay much in the brush, and
to keep well under cover when he did venture out. He had learned to drop
in his tracks, no matter what he might be doing, whenever a shadow fell
across his path. It might be a harmless bird, but it might be a hawk.
Better to hide from a dozen robins than to let one butcherbird catch sight
of him!
About this time Boblets began to think about finding a mate and setting
up a home of his own. One night he met a dear little maiden mouse, and
immediately began to make love to her in mouse fashion. He ran up to her
and began squeaking, rubbing his nose over hers, and in various other ways
that would appeal to a mouse's heart, showed his liking for her.
But alas! a burly bobtailed mouse of the previous summer came along
just then, and the inevitable battle followed. Both exerted their utmost
strength, pushing, fencing, biting, and scratching like little furies.
Boblets was the more active, and though the other mouse had him down at
every tussle, he managed to take care of himself fairly well. Still, it is
doubtful how the fray would have ended had not the ominous shadow of a
screech owl fallen across their battleground. Boblets saw it the instant
it crossed their path, and as quickly decided what to do. One bound took
him into the long grass, where he lay perfectly still. His antagonist was
less shrewd, and saw nothing till the owl was carrying him away in his
talons to give to his family at home. Boblets soon found his maiden, and
though he would carry the scars of his wounds till death, they went into
the brush together to establish a home. We shall follow them and see how
they set about it.
There were many excellent locations in the open ground, where the soil
was soft and would dig easily, but Boblets had had one experience with
such a place, and that was enough for a bright fellow like him. There was
a field of growing corn, too, but he had been compelled to leave a
cornfield once. So he went some distance from any other mouse homes, into
the thickest brush he could find, and chose a clump of the largest bushes
in the whole thicket under which to make his den.
The digging went slowly, but by morning Boblets and his mate were down
among the roots far enough so they felt safe to rest till evening. The
next night they dug again, and so it went for a week. One night a skunk
smelled them and tried to dig them out, but he had gone only a few inches
before the roots stopped him. This led Boblets to dig deeper and better.
First the passage ran nearly straight, but toward the middle of the clump
it slanted downward, till it was fully a foot below the surface. Below
this a sort of chamber was hollowed out, and enough grass and leaves to
fill a half bushel measure were arranged into a nest. This was lined with
down, horsehair, feathers, and such other choice bits of softness as could
be found in the brush. When it was finished it was as warm and snug as a
feather bed.
After the first babies came, Boblets worked alone, opening passages in
various directions, till at last seven covered hallways, or subways, led
to the nest. He did not intend to keep his family where they could be
trapped. Still he did not feel quite secure, so he dug another tunnel
almost straight down for nearly three feet. Surely no fox would dig that
deep for him.
The next work demanding attention was the building of roads, and by
that time the mouse children were old enough to help. Had it not been so,
Boblets would never have been ready for winter when it came.
To make the roads the mice would carefully nibble the grass off level
with the top of the ground, in a track about an inch wide, and then raise
the grass up just enough so it would not touch them when they ran under
it. The path was then traveled till it was perfectly smooth. These roads
were built only on level, well-protected ground. If it was too rough
anywhere, the road either ran around the obstruction or tunneled through
it. Three long main highways were made first, one running for a full
hundred yards among the thickest hazel brush, one about seventy-five yards
long to the nearest jack oak tree, and the third leading to a thorn apple
tree fully two hundred yards away. From these were branch roads running in
various directions and connecting with those of the neighbors on all
sides.
By the time the nuts were ripe and the work of harvesting began, there
were safe, well-beaten roads running everywhere. The industry of these
little dwellers in our fields can be fully understood only by those who
have followed and carefully worked out their systems of roads. The immense
amount of work represented by such a network of highways and byways as
that made by Boblets and his family could never be accomplished, were it
not that the young mice, who are born too late in the season to establish
homes of their own, stay with their parents and assist them. One who has
seen a mouse pass unobserved under the very eye of a hawk, or has tried to
catch one as he dashed down some tiny lane to escape danger, is best
prepared to appreciate the value of these highways to their makers. Get a
bobtailed mouse out of his regular beaten way, and he is so hindered by
his short legs that he is easily caught; but let him once set foot upon
one of his own royal highways, and he is safe. If a mouse den is fortunate
enough to remain undisturbed for three or four years, these roads become
so numerous and so complicated with short cuts and crossroads that it is
next to impossible to trace them out.
By the middle of September the real work of storing up the winter's
supplies began in earnest. As I did not see this work done, I can only
describe the results as I found them in November, when I was out digging
for nuts and chanced to unearth the home of Boblets. Yes, I was gathering
hazelnuts with a mattock and spade, queer as that may seem to you.
Having followed up a mouse run or two for some distance, and finding
good evidence that there was a den under the large clump of hazel brush,
where, it developed, Boblets had made his home, I prepared carefully to
dig into it. There was no dirt piled about the clump of brush to indicate
anything unusual. Sometimes there is loose earth at such places, but in
this case there was none- another evidence of
the shrewdness of our small hero.
The brush was old and tough, and Boblets had done his work well. After
half an hour's digging I was about to give up, thinking perhaps I had been
mistaken after all. The tunnel I was trying to unearth wound up and down
among the roots and was difficult to follow. No coyote could possibly have
dug out this mouse family. Just as I said to my brother, "Let's quit
and go somewhere else," I happened to lift a shovelful of earth at
the side of the brush, and thereby disclosed a pocket filled with thorn
apples. This was not very far under the ground. It had been placed at just
this depth in order that the apples might freeze when the first really
cold days came, and yet prevent their thawing and freezing again with
every change in the weather in early fall. This pocket was an oval,
oven-shaped cell, smoothed at the sides and arched above with a skill
equaling that of the best mason who ever wielded a trowel. It held perhaps
a gallon and a half of ripe, red thorn apples, so snugly packed in that
they could with difficulty be removed with the fingers. As I was not after
thorn apples, however, I did not disturb them.
Leaving this cell, I followed a new tunnel, which ran considerably
deeper and ended in an oval-shaped pocket holding about a peck of jack oak
acorns as clean and bright as if they had been sorted and washed. These
also I left, and followed still another tunnel, which ran downward at a
sharp angle for a little distance and opened into a rather long-shaped
pocket. This cell had a drain, so that no water could possibly stand in
it.
Here was a treasure trove indeed- the royal
storehouse, filled to the brim with beautiful brown hazelnuts, a whole
bushel and a half of them! They were packed in so tightly that they left
dents in the wall when they were taken out. I did not find the room where
the shells were to be stored when the nuts were eaten; but such a room is
always prepared, for bobtailed meadow mice are not slack housekeepers by
any means, and often it is so snowy that they cannot carry the shells out
of their den after they have eaten the nuts. Besides, every mouse who
makes any pretense to wisdom knows that a pile of nutshells says as
plainly as words, not only to men but to chipmunks, that there are nuts
near by. It is a silly mouse indeed who scatters his empty shells about
his door.
After the nuts had been taken, Boblets came back, apparently to defend
his castle. He was caught; and seeing he was so grizzled and scarred, we
took him home and placed him in a large box of corncobs in the barn. Now
had he been any other sort of mouse he would have gnawed his way out
before the day was over; as it was, he stayed where he was put. He made a
nest of corn silks in one corner of the box and lived there all winter. We
fed him corn and hazelnuts, and instead of leaving the remains of his meal
wherever he happened to eat, he piled them all up neatly in the corner
farthest from his nest.
Boblets grew fat in captivity. He also grew morose, and even fierce. If
taken out of his box, he showed no fear, but always tried to fight. He
would chase me, snarling, all over the barn floor, and would bite if he
could get near enough. I have known wild mice of this variety to make
similar exhibitions of temper, and have even known them to try to drive
cows and horses from the region of their dens.
One spring morning I stopped as usual on my way to school to see
Boblets (three neighbor boys were keeping him then), and at their
suggestion he was put into a mitten and taken to school. In the schoolyard
he was liberated, and a crowd of eager boys and girls flocked around. He
started toward the girls, and of course soon drove them into the
schoolhouse. One of the boys caught him, and turned him loose in the
schoolroom; and presto! he had it clear of girls in short order. Then the
teacher interfered, and Boblets was taken outdoors again.
When school called, he was placed in a mitten and hidden in a desk.
Temptation was strong- and at recess he was
again liberated. This time he showed such disposition to fight and bite
that even the smaller boys were afraid of him. Finally he made a dash for
liberty, and ran out and hid under some rails. Of course these were moved,
and he was recaptured. Soon he was receiving such rough usage that we boys
wished we had left him at home. We did our best to protect him, but some
of the boys were so frightened that they tried to hit him with sticks or
stones whenever he ran toward them. In spite of our efforts in his behalf,
one boy finally hit him with a heavy club, and literally smashed the poor
old hero, and we were left to lament the folly of taking a pet mouse to
school.
A life had gone out. Only the life of a little harmless denizen of the
field, who, had his lot been cast under more favorable circumstances,
might have lived to enjoy during many happy years the fruits of his toil
and skill. Common mice, which are so filthy that but few animals will eat
them, can hold their own, even against the hand of man; but these, the
clean and almost harmless members of a hated tribe, seem doomed to
extermination. There is not a skunk, squirrel, mink, mole, or bird of prey
that does not regard them as lawful spoil. Wolves and foxes hunt them to
the ground, and even the farmer's well-fed dog thinks them a dainty
morsel. Not long ago I walked several miles and hunted closely to find one
small den where only a few years ago the ground was covered with a network
of their roads. No one misses or regrets them, but I cannot help feeling
as I walk through the fields that a familiar friend has gone, never to
return.
WHAT'S
NEW? 
