DOI issue:
Harland, Henry: Two sketches
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.20196#0142
136 Two Sketches
laureis in a corner; then a dozen medium-sized, slender mice,
trim and youthful-looking, rushing irrelevantly hither and thither,
with funny inquisitive little faces ; and then a squirming mass of
pink things, like caterpillars, that were really infant mice, new-
born. They didn't remain infants long, though. In a few days
they had put on virile togas of white für, and were scrambling
about the cage and nibbling their food as independently as their
eiders. The rapidity with which my mice multiplied and grew
to maturity was a constant source of astonishment to me. It
seemed as if every morning I found a new litter of young mice in
the cage—though how they had effected an entrance through the
wire gauze that lined it was a hopeless puzzle—and these would
have become responsible, self-supporting mice in no time.
My mother told me that somebody had sent me this soul-
stirring present from the country, and I dare say I was made to
sit down and write a letter of thanks. But I'm ashamed to own
I can't remember who the giver was. I have a vague notion that
it was a lady, an elderly maiden-lady—Mademoiselle..... some-
thing that began with P— who lived near Tours, and who used
to come to Paris once or twice a year, and always brought me a
box of prunes.
I Alexandre carried the cage into my play-room, and set it up
against the wall. I stationed myself in front of it, and remained
there all the rest of the afternoon, gazing in, entranced. To watch
their antics, their Comings and goings, their labours and amuse-
ments, to study their shrewd, alert physiognomies, to wonder
about their feelings, thoughts, intentions, to try to di'vine the
meaning of their busy twittering language—it was such keen,
deep delight. Of course I was an anthropomorphist, and read a
great dealof human nature into them ; otherwise it wouldn't have
been such fun, I dragged myself reluctantly away when I was
callpd
laureis in a corner; then a dozen medium-sized, slender mice,
trim and youthful-looking, rushing irrelevantly hither and thither,
with funny inquisitive little faces ; and then a squirming mass of
pink things, like caterpillars, that were really infant mice, new-
born. They didn't remain infants long, though. In a few days
they had put on virile togas of white für, and were scrambling
about the cage and nibbling their food as independently as their
eiders. The rapidity with which my mice multiplied and grew
to maturity was a constant source of astonishment to me. It
seemed as if every morning I found a new litter of young mice in
the cage—though how they had effected an entrance through the
wire gauze that lined it was a hopeless puzzle—and these would
have become responsible, self-supporting mice in no time.
My mother told me that somebody had sent me this soul-
stirring present from the country, and I dare say I was made to
sit down and write a letter of thanks. But I'm ashamed to own
I can't remember who the giver was. I have a vague notion that
it was a lady, an elderly maiden-lady—Mademoiselle..... some-
thing that began with P— who lived near Tours, and who used
to come to Paris once or twice a year, and always brought me a
box of prunes.
I Alexandre carried the cage into my play-room, and set it up
against the wall. I stationed myself in front of it, and remained
there all the rest of the afternoon, gazing in, entranced. To watch
their antics, their Comings and goings, their labours and amuse-
ments, to study their shrewd, alert physiognomies, to wonder
about their feelings, thoughts, intentions, to try to di'vine the
meaning of their busy twittering language—it was such keen,
deep delight. Of course I was an anthropomorphist, and read a
great dealof human nature into them ; otherwise it wouldn't have
been such fun, I dragged myself reluctantly away when I was
callpd