It was somewhere up in the mountains of Berkshire, in a queer,
quaint, old-fashioned garden, that I made Mr. Whiskey's acquaintance.

Here there lives a young parson, who preaches every Sunday in a
little brown church, and during week-days goes through all these
hills and valleys, visiting the poor, and gathering children into
Sunday schools.

His wife is a very small-sized lady--not much bigger than you, my
little Mary--but very fond of all sorts of dumb animals; and by
constantly watching their actions and ways, she has come to have
quite a strange power over them, as I shall relate.

The little lady fixed her mind on Whiskey, and gave him his name
without consulting him upon the subject. She admired his bright
eyes, and resolved to cultivate his acquaintance.

By constant watching, she discovered that he had a small hole of his
own in the grass-plot a few paces from her back-door. So she used to
fill her pocket with hazel-nuts, and go out and sit in the back
porch, and make a little noise, such as squirrels make to each other,
to attract his attention.

In a minute or two up would pop the little head with the bright eyes,
in the grass-plot, and Master Whiskey would sit on his haunches and
listen, with one small ear cocked towards her. Then she would throw
him a hazel-nut, and he would slip instantly down into his hole
again. In a minute or two, however, his curiosity would get the
better of his prudence; and she, sitting quiet, would see the little
brown-striped head slowly, slowly coming up again, over the tiny