Such an one is generally abandoned by its mother, or else is the
first to fall in the battle with the strong before she gives him
up as hopeless. Little Tookhees evidently belonged to this class,
so before leaving I undertook the task of teaching him fear,
which had evidently been too much for Nature and his own mother.
I pinched him a few times, hooting like an owl as I did so,--a
startling process, which sent the other mice diving like brown
streaks to cover. Then I waved a branch over him, like a hawk's
wing, at the same time flipping him end over end, shaking him up
terribly. Then again, when he appeared with a new light dawning
in his eyes, the light of fear, I would set a stick to wiggling
like a creeping fox among the ferns and switch him sharply with a
hemlock tip. It was a hard lesson, but he learned it after a few
days. And before I finished the teaching, not a mouse would come
to my table, no matter how persuasively I squeaked. They would
dart about in the twilight as of yore, but the first whish of my
stick sent them all back to cover on the instant.
That was their stern yet, practical preparation for the robber
horde that would soon be prowling over my camping ground. Then a
stealthy movement among the ferns or the sweep of a shadow among
the twilight shadows would mean a very different thing from
wriggling stick and waving hemlock tip.
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