CHAPTER XXII.
TROUBLE STILL
The young mice seemed obedient to Minnie until they had reached the entrance of the nest; but, at the first taste of fresh air, they began to frisk about, and do whatever they chose.
First they attacked her heap of food, and ate all the choicest bits which she had saved for the little ones. Then off they ran, this, that, and every way, Minnie calling after them in vain.
She went in search of the runaways, but they hid safely under the leaves and grass, or burrowed into the ground. Tired and discouraged, the poor girl turned back to collect what food was left, and give it to the little ones.
And still the old mouse did not come home. Minnie wondered if she had gone on purpose to be rid of her family, and if she must herself have the care of bringing up this great brood of noisy, troublesome mice.
Why not let them starve? If they grew up, it would only be to cheat and steal, like their mother, and run away with people's meal and cheese.
Ah! but Minnie had promised. And, besides, the old mouse had been kind in her way, and had offered Minnie a home when other friends forsook her. No, she would not desert the little ones.
All at once she remembered a trap that used to stand in her mother's pantry; suppose the mouse was caught in it! She would go this instant, and see.
Now the underground pathway was very, very narrow, and so close and warm that three times Minnie gave up her attempt, and as many times went back; for, when she thought that the friend who had fed her might be starving, it was enough to drive away all other thoughts.
Still, not being a mouse, she could not breathe in that close cellar-way. Her strength all left her. The little heart, that had beat so fast when she thought of going home, home, only fluttered faintly now. She began to feel that she could not even creep back to the mouse-nest; that this dark passage was to be her grave.
But one step forward brought Minnie into a good-sized room, and what was her surprise to find this the nest of the father-mouse!
He didn't like the noise and trouble of children, he said, and so kept away from the sound of their voices. He hoped his mate was well, and was just on the point of going to see what had become of her.
When Minnie told her fears, he uttered a frightened squeak, and said he was sure she must be right, and that he was a poor, lonesome widower, and should never see his dear, dear wife again.
Minnie cheered him by telling that her mother's trap was not one of the cruel ones with teeth, but only a box with wires, in which his wife might live safely for several days. Then she explained how with his teeth and paws he could open the door and set her free.
Away flew the mouse, first showing his friend a nearer and easier pathway out into the air.
Minnie now began to consider how displeased the mother-mouse would be, on returning, to find her children scattered in all directions. If she could but call them together, and see them safe in the nest once more, bid the old mice good-by, and ride off quietly herself on the turtle's back, how happy she would be!
She climbed the tall evening primrose, and looked on every side, but not a sign of a mouse. She leaped into the grass again, and, with the stick of her parasol, stirred every tuft of clover and bunch of violet or plantain leaves. In vain.
Minnie had made up her mind that they were lost, drowned in the brook, or eaten by some bird of prey, when she caught sight of one, with his bright eyes and sharp little nose peeping up from under a toadstool.
Then she knew that all the rest must be near, and, jumping on top of the toadstool, she said,
"You mischievous fellows, I dare say you are all laughing at me in your hiding-places; but hear this! your mother is dead, perhaps, and as sure as you stay out of your nest at night, some mischief will come to you. I shall waste no more time in this search."
Wasn't it ungrateful in the mice to disobey Minnie, when she had taken so much trouble for their sakes? And yet I have known children whose parents took as much pains for their sake, and who were as thoughtless and disobedient as Minnie's mice.
CHAPTER XXIII.
FREE AT LAST
When Minnie returned to the nest, whom should she meet but mouse in the midst of her little ones?
The mate was there also. He had come partly to help home his wife, – who had lamed her foot in the trap, – and partly to boast of his wonderful courage and ingenuity in setting her free.
Both were very profuse in their thanks to Minnie; for the young mice had already told of her kindness and care. Minnie interrupted their thanks to ask the news from home.
This, mouse had half forgotten in her flight. She only remembered how, after the trap shut down upon her, the pantry-door had opened, and a lady came in.
"Tell me exactly how she looked," said Minnie.
"She wore a gown of pink muslin, and pink ribbons in her hair."
"O, that was my own mother! How I wish I had been in your place!"
"I wished so too. When she lifted her hand and took down a jar of sweetmeats, that stood close by the trap, I felt sure she'd see me, and have me killed. O, how I trembled! It was as much as ever I could do to keep from squeaking when I thought of my mate, and all the little ones."
"Was my mother alone?"
"No; a little boy came with her, and watched while she took the sweetmeats out into a dish. Before closing the jar, I saw her give him a taste of the delicious pine-apple."
"How did you know it was pine-apple?"
"O, after my mate had set me free, we waited to lap up a few drops that trickled down the side of the jar. We know the taste of good things! Was that boy your brother?"
"No; it was dear Franky, my playfellow, who lives at the other side of the fence. Didn't he say anything?"
"He asked the lady if she supposed Minnie was where she could have nice pine-apple for tea. I couldn't hear the answer, for they both left the pantry then."
"My generous Franky! He always thought more of others than himself."
"Don't cry, dear, and I'll call you my generous Minnie. Think! if you had not been so kind, all our little ones might have starved."
"Yes; and my own wife might have dried up into a skeleton in that dreadful trap!" said the father-mouse. "How glad we are that we have such a kind friend to live with us always!"
Alas, it was hard for Minnie now to tell that she meant to leave their nest! But, hearing the slow steps of turtle brush through the grass above, she thanked the mice for their good-will, and hurried out into the sunshine, to meet her new and faithful friend.
As for the mice, they were so taken by surprise, that at first they could only look after her, without saying a word. But, before she had reached the brook, Minnie heard a squeaking and scrambling underground; and, from a little opening, which she had not seen before, up darted mouse and her mate, trembling with anger, and talking so noisily, both at once, that she could not make out what either said.
Meantime turtle, who had little respect for mice, kept on at his steady, slow pace, through the grass. As Minnie was mounted on his back, the mice were obliged to travel also, in order that she might hear their complaints and reproaches.
For they had forgotten all about gratitude, now, and could only grieve over the missing broods of young.
As soon as Minnie discovered this, she begged turtle to wait a moment, that she might tell her side of the tale; but on he jogged, and, when the mice would not be still, snapped at them so fiercely with his snaky head, that they both scampered home in fright.
They had not grieved for naught. Four of the truants had drowned themselves in attempting to cross the brook; two had been eaten by a crow; and the rest were snapped up at a mouthful, by a spaniel, that happened to run through the field.
CHAPTER XXIV.
TURTLE
You remember Minnie was a restless little soul; and will not be surprised to learn that she had not lived with the turtle long before his slow ways tired her.
He was stubborn and disobliging, too. If he started for a place, she couldn't make him turn one inch aside; but on, on, on he crept at the same slow pace, – no matter whether Minnie were wet, and half-frozen with rain, or parched with sunshine, – on, on, till he reached his goal.
Still he was always quiet and dignified, had no quarrels with his neighbors, and seemed to treat his little guest as well as he knew how.
It is true he surprised her in disagreeable ways sometimes. If he saw a pool of deep mud by the road-side he would wallow through it, sadly soiling Minnie's fine cloak of humming-bird feathers. She knew he was partial to mud, and would not have blamed him so much had this excursion been all; but, instead of going back to the grass, where she might wipe herself clean, he would mount some slanting log that rose out of the water, and stand there sunning himself for hours.
One day, a gentleman, who was driving past in a chaise, saw Minnie and the turtle perched thus on a log, and stopped to examine the curious object.
Turtle drew his head inside of his shell at once, and left poor Minnie to her fate.
Now it happened that the traveller was a great naturalist, and especially fond of collecting turtles. He had hundreds of them, snapping at each other, and scrambling over each others' backs, in his yard at home.
Still he was always on the watch for a new specimen; and here was a famous one, he thought. Springing from his chaise, the gentleman ran to the other side of the brook, and was walking cautiously toward them, when turtle thought it time to look out for his own safety. So, dropping from the log, he disappeared in the thick, muddy bottom of the brook.
The naturalist went back, disappointed, to his chaise. Minnie, in passing, caught at some iris-leaves, and clung to them. As soon as she could wipe the water from her mouth, she called out, "Allow me to bid you good-by, Mr. Turtle. I think I can take as good care of myself as you've taken of me thus far, and henceforth I will save you the trouble."
"What's that? I'm rather thick of hearing," said turtle, from under the mud.
"Good-by, that's all!" And, by the time he had reached the end of his log once more, Minnie was floating down the brook on a pond-lily leaf, diving every now and then to cleanse herself from the mud which turtle had dragged her through.
"Why shouldn't I live by myself? Where's the use in giving others so much trouble?" she said now. "Why cannot I play with the flowers and butterflies, run races with the ripples, and bright little fishes, in the brook; or sleep on any bank of moss, or in any empty bird's nest that I can find? At least, let me try; and, if I grow hungry or lonesome, there are enough good people to take me in."
CHAPTER XXV.
MINNIE'S WINGS
Now came the most beautiful and happiest part of Minnie's wandering life. So nimble was she, and ready for sport, and so droll, and withal so gentle and ready to oblige, that she made friends on every side. Wherever she went you'd be sure to find a flock of butterflies, or bees, or birds, about her.
They taught her all the pretty sports which they had practised among themselves; once more she flew across the meadows with the birds, fed on the fresh, clear honey of the bee, and played hide-and-seek with butterflies.
Sometimes the butterflies lifted her far up into the air. How do you suppose they contrived to do it, with their slender wings, which even the wind could break?
Minnie told them that, in her father's house stood a statue, with wings on the wrists and feet. This was Mercury, whom the Greeks in old times worshipped as one of their many gods.
Now, she thought the butterflies might make a little Mercury of her. No sooner had she said as much than a beautiful pair, spreading wings large enough for sails to her lily-leaf boat, floated through the sunshine to settle upon the little woman's shoulders. Then followed smaller ones, with blue, white, and yellow wings; and, fastening themselves to her ankles and wrists, up, up, they all flew together!
But the next day Minnie found her little friends creeping about with their wings sadly sprained. So she would not often let them repeat this experiment.
O, I should have to write a larger book than this to tell you what good times Minnie had with the butterflies; into what pleasant places they were always leading her; how gentle and playful they were, and how their wings were perfumed with the flowers they had lived among.
She loved to have them follow her when she walked, especially that little golden kind you have often seen in the meadows. Some followed, some fluttered on before, as if she were a little queen, and they her body-guard.
There were no angry voices now, no envious neighbors; no Master Squirrel came to repeat disagreeable stories. Instead of that stifled squirrel-hole in the elm, she had the sweet air of heaven about her now. Instead of that crowded yellow-bird's nest, where Minnie had felt in the way, she had now the wide meadow, with room enough in its soft, green lining, for herself and all her friends.
But, alas! Minnie was the one, this time, to cause trouble and discontent. Only to gratify her wilful temper, she did what she would have given half the world to undo afterwards. It was a little thing, – you would hardly call it wicked; and yet it grieved and drove away her gentle friends, and would have cost her own life, but for an accident. These little things make half the mischief in the world.
CHAPTER XXVI.
HIDE-AND-SEEK
One afternoon, tired of playing in the hot sun, Minnie thought she would creep under some shady cluster of leaves, and sleep.
But the butterflies could never have play enough, and the hotter the sunshine, the better for them. So they did not understand that the little girl needed rest, and, thinking her weariness only make-believe, would not give her any peace.
They ran across her hands, they tickled her cheeks with their feathery feelers, they pelted her with buttercups, and at last began to cover her over with leaves of the wild rose. So full of mischief were they, that one could no more sleep, while they were about, than if they'd been so many bees.
At first Minnie tried to be good-natured, and laugh at their pranks; but, warm and tired as she was, you cannot wonder that her patience didn't last.
Some children would have roughly driven the butterflies away-have pelted them with stones, perhaps, and broken their beautiful wings. But Minnie could not forget how kind they had been; and besides, you know, they were not such little things to her as they seem to us; they were almost as large as herself.
She only arose, and, turning her back, would not speak to them, or spoke in such a snappish manner that the butterflies were frightened, and flew away.
Left alone, she espied, near the wood, something that looked like a side-saddle, just large enough for a little body like herself. She sprang to see if there were a tiny horse to fit, and thought how quickly he should gallop off with her, so far that the butterflies could not follow-no, not if they wore their wings off!
But the saddle proved only to be a flower, so much like a wadded leather cushion, that Minnie took her seat upon it, and was swaying back and forth with its tall, stiff stem, when she noticed that it was surrounded by a row of leaves more curious, even, than the flower.
Each leaf was like a little pitcher, with such great ears that Minnie wondered if it were not the very kind she had heard her mother talk about, when she was whispering secrets. There they stood, like the forty jars in which Ali-Baba caught the forty thieves, in the Arabian Nights.
"Here's a place to hide!" She had hardly said it, when the butterflies came in sight, and Minnie slipped into the tallest pitcher, unseen by them, she thought.
But no-they found her; and now was Minnie's time to laugh. Fold their wide wings together, crumple them as they might, not one of the butterflies could crowd himself through the narrow neck of the pitcher. They could only stand and look down wistfully at the roguish face within.
"I'm glad to see you! shake hands!" said Minnie, shaking their slender wrists till they begged her to be still.
"Ah! Minnie, not so rough! Come, now, don't be cross any longer. Come out and play with us!"
"Don't you wish I would? Don't you wish you could catch me?" was all the answer she made.
"But we've found a bee that a bird killed, and we saved the honey-bag for you."
In vain they urged. Minnie was very stubborn. She laughed at the butterflies, and teased them, until they were offended, and, one by one, flew back to the brook.
And, now that she had leisure to look about, the little girl found herself in an uncomfortable place. Not only was the pitcher half full of water, but so narrow that she could hardly move, and lined with stiff hairs, that seemed like thorns to tiny hands like hers. She would not stay here.
But how to escape was the question! She only climbed the sides to slip back again; her arms were scratched till they bled; her garments were heavy with the water in which they drabbled. Night was coming down; she could hear the crickets sing; she caught glimpses of birds flying home to their nests; yet all were so noisy or so busy that they could not hear her voice.
How she wished, now, that her rudeness had not driven the butterflies away! But it was too late for such wishes; they had gone.