Wee Timrous Beasties | Page 9

between some small root
branches, and terminated in a double compartment. Three nuts hit him
from behind as he descended.
[Illustration: HE HUMBLY TRIED TO FOLLOW.]
To his left lay the nest, a mass of feathery grass and mosses. He slipped
into it, and, as he cleared the shaft entrance, the three nuts followed
with a rush. He lay there quiet until his eyes had become accustomed to
the semi-darkness.
Then he perceived that he was not alone. The right-hand portion of the
hollow held a lady tenant. She had her back to him, and was busily
employed in the storeroom. He could just distinguish that the farthest
recess held a great pile of nuts, and that her business was to collect the
nuts as they toppled down the shoot, and stack them in as small a space
as possible.
[Illustration: SHE PAUSED, AND HE SAW HER SNIFF
SUSPICIOUSLY.]
Suddenly she paused, and he saw her sniff suspiciously, she swung
round, and he was discovered. He had barely time to back into a corner,
before she was upon him, and at the first nip, he knew that he had met a
better vole. Over they rolled, scratching, biting, tearing. Her sharp,
chisel teeth met in his ear and tore the half of it away. The blood
blinded him, but he stuck grimly to his task.
[Illustration: SHE SWUNG ROUND, AND HE WAS DISCOVERED.]
Physically he was at an immense disadvantage. His clumsy movements
availed but little against the fierce agility of the red vole. Time after
time he snapped at her and missed; for, even as he aimed, she could
swing her lithe body round and leap upon him from behind. Nor, when
they grappled, could he retain his hold on her. Against the leverage of
those powerful hind legs he could do nothing.

His cause, moreover, was a bad one. Was he not the intruder? and when
was ever mercy accorded to such among four-footed things? His
strength was fast failing when he fled, hotly pursued, up to the open
once more. He only exchanged one foe for four. Lacerated, faint, and
bleeding, he crouched, waiting for their attack. It was a short and
savage one. An owl hooted above, the red voles rushed to cover, but he
remained behind.
He had only really felt one bite. A pair of razor teeth had nipped his
spine, and--he had hardly noticed a dozen other wounds. He was
terribly thirsty, and struggled to reach a dewdrop which hung above his
head, but his hind legs were paralyzed and powerless. Gradually his
eyelids drooped, and he sank slowly over on one side. It was growing
very dark and very cold.

THE APOLOGY OF THE HOUSE SPARROW
(NOTE.--It would not be morally profitable to describe how I learnt
Sparrowese. The language of the sparrow is the language of the gutter.
I have Englishized it throughout.)
"I was the odd egg, for one thing," said the sparrow. He was speaking
with his mouth full, as usual.
[Illustration: HE WAS SPEAKING WITH HIS MOUTH FULL, AS
USUAL.]
"What on earth do you mean by that?" I replied.
He laughed offensively. "Do you know anything about sparrows?" he
sneered.
I confessed I did not know much.
"I never knew any one write about them who did," he went on. "What
was I saying when you interrupted me?"

"You said you were the odd egg," I replied. "What is an odd egg?"
"Do you know what a clutch is?" His intonation was insolence itself.
"A clutch," said I, "is, I believe, a sitting of eggs destined to be
simultaneously hatched."
"Perhaps you may have noticed," said he, "that in our family"--his
every feather bristled with importance, and the white bars on his wings
were beautifully displayed--"we do not confine ourselves to a single
monotonous pattern of egg."
"A string of variegated sparrows' eggs was one of my earliest
treasures," said I.
"Well, then, if you know that much, and don't know what the odd egg is,
you must be a fool," said he.
It is hard to be insulted by a sparrow, and, as it is, I have toned down
the expression, but I preserved a meek silence.
"Any one," he went on, with bland condescension, "who has seen a few
clutches of sparrows' eggs, and has not noticed that there is an odd egg
in each clutch, must be an uncommonly poor observer."
"It is not in the books," I ventured to protest.
"Books!" he screamed, "books! What do the people who write books
know about sparrows? And yet, do you know that there has been more
ink spilt over sparrows than over any other bird? that laws innumerable
have been passed concerning sparrows? that associations have been
formed to exterminate sparrows? that--that--that----"
[Illustration: THERE IS AN