Two African pygmy mice (mus-musculoides) curled up together in a hollowed-out log.
Part 1 of 3
When I built a house in the country, fond as I am of cats, I determined not to keep any there, because they would destroy the birds’ nests and drive my feathered friends away, and I liked to watch and feed these from the windows.
Things went pleasantly for a while. The birds were fed, and paid for their keep with many and many a song. There were the old ones and there the young, and oft by the hour I watched them from the window; and they became so tame as scarcely caring to get out of my way when I went outside with more food. But — there is always a but — but one day, or rather evening, as I was ‘looking on,’ a rat came out from the rocks, and then another. Soon they began their repast on the remains of the birds’ food. Then in the twilight came mice, the short-tailed and the long, scampering hither and thither. This, too, was amusing.
Précis
Harrison Weir, the Victorian illustrator, bought a country cottage so he could observe songbirds. The birds soon became quite tame, but in due course the seed he put out for them attracted rats and mice; and as he kept no cat, for fear of what it might do to the birds, he was at a loss. (56 / 60 words)
Part Two
Starlings squabbling over a bird-feeder near Bury in Lancashire.
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.
* Another word for hazelnuts.
Précis
The problem came to a head that autumn, when Weir stashed some hazelnuts in a bedroom closet. The mice got into the closet and made such a maddening noise with their squeaks and squabbles that he could not sleep. The noise abated briefly when he went to investigate, but as soon as the light was out it started again. (59 / 60 words)
Part Three
These chickens at Black Syke Farm near Appleby, Cumbria, know they have nothing to fear from Ginger, who is there to protect them. He is a professional, a resident gunslinger whose job is to stop mice eating the hens’ grain, and especially to kill rats, which attack the hens themselves. A mouse or a rat would have to be very, very hungry to steal from the hen-house at Black Syke Farm. But see also St Nicholas of the Cats, where the game was even more scary than rats.
No! oh, dear no! sleep! no more sleep. Outside, I liked to watch the mice; but when they climbed the ivy and got inside, the pleasure entirely ceased. Nor was this all; they got into the vineries and spoilt the grapes, and the rats killed the young ducks and chickens, and undermined the building also, besides storing quantities of grain and other things under the floor.
The result number one was, three cats coming on a visit. Farmyard cats — cats that knew the difference between chickens, ducklings, mice, and rats. Result number two, that after being away a couple of weeks, I went again to my cottage, and I slept undisturbed in the room late the playground of the mice. My chickens and ducklings were safe, and soon the cats allowed the birds to be fed in front of the window, though I could not break them of destroying many of the nests.
I never noticed more fully the very great use the domestic cat is to man than on that occasion. All day my cats were indoors, dozy, sociable, and contented. At night they were on guard outside, and doubtless saved me the lives of dozens of my ‘young things.’
Précis
At last, Weir felt he had no choice but to hire three farm cats. With consummate professionalism they despatched the mice and rats but left his domestic fowl alone, and even ignored the songbirds that crowded round his window. The relief prompted him to reflect that cats are truly a blessing to man — and sometimes even to little birds too. (61 / 60 words)
