In the autumn I bought some filberts,* and put them into a closet upstairs, went to London, returned, and thought I would sleep in the room adjoining the closet. No such thing. As soon as the light was out there was a sound of gnawing — curb—curb—sweek!—squeak — a rushing of tiny feet here, there, and everywhere; thump, bump—scriggle, scraggle—squeak — overhead, above the ceiling, behind the skirting boards, under the floor, and — in the closet.

I lighted a candle, opened the door, and looked into the repository for my filberts. What a hustling, what a scuffling, what a scrambling. There they were, mice in numbers; they “made for” some holes in the corners of the cupboard, got jammed, squeaked, struggled, squabbled, pushed, their tails making circles; push—push—squeak! — more jostling, another effort or two — squeak—squeak—gurgle—squeak — more struggling — and they were gone. Gone? Yes! but not for long. As soon as the light was out back they came.