The mother was away foraging, but a faint sibilant squeaking
within the dome told me that the little ones were there, and
hungry as usual. As I watched there was a swift movement in a
tunnel among the roots, and the mother-mouse came rushing back.
She paused a moment, lifting her forepaws against a root to sniff
what danger threatened. Then she saw my face bending over the
opening--Et tu Brute! and she darted into the nest. In a moment
she was out again and disappeared into her tunnel, running
swiftly with her little ones hanging to her sides by a grip that
could not be shaken,--all but one, a delicate pink creature that
one could hide in a thimble, and that snuggled down in the
darkest corner of my hand confidently.

It was ten minutes before the little mother came back, looking
anxiously for the lost baby. When she found him safe in his own
nest, with the man's face still watching, she was half reassured;
but when she threw herself down and the little one began to
drink, she grew fearful again and ran away into the tunnel, the
little one clinging to her side, this time securely.

I put the stone back and gathered the moss carefully about it. In
a few days Mother Mouse was again at my table. I stole away to
the stone, put my ear close to it, and heard with immense
satisfaction tiny squeaks, which told me that the house was again
occupied. Then I watched to find the path by which Mother Mouse
came to her own. When her cheeks were full, she disappeared under
the shred of bark by her usual route. That led into the hollow
center of the birch log, which she followed to the end, where she
paused a moment, eyes, ears, and nostrils busy; then she jumped
to a tangle of roots and dead leaves, beneath which was a tunnel