Sometimes,
however, when I have seen him swimming in the lake or river, I
have wondered whether he were going on a journey, or just bathing
for the love of it, as he washed his face in my cup.
I left the cup where it was and spread a feast for the little
guest, cracker crumbs and a bit of candle end. In the morning
they were gone, the signs of several mice telling plainly who had
been called in from the wilderness byways. That was the
introduction of man to beast. Soon they came regularly. I had
only to scatter crumbs and squeak a few times like a mouse, when
little streaks and flashes would appear on the moss or among the
faded gold tapestries of old birch leaves, and the little wild
things would come to my table, their eyes shining like jet, their
tiny paws lifted to rub their whiskers or to shield themselves
from the fear under which they lived continually.
They were not all alike--quite the contrary. One, the same who
had washed in my cup, was gray and old, and wise from much
dodging of enemies. His left ear was split from a fight, or an
owl's claw, probably, that just missed him as he dodged under a
root. He was at once the shyest and boldest of the lot. For a day
or two he came with marvelous stealth, making use of every dead
leaf and root tangle to hide his approach, and shooting across
the open spaces so quickly that one knew not what had happened-
-just a dun streak which ended in nothing.
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