the introduction of man to beast. Soon
they came regularly. I had only to scatter crumbs and squeak a few times
like a mouse, when little streaks and flashes would appear on the moss
or among the faded gold tapestries of old birch leaves, and the little
wild things would come to my table, their eyes shining like jet, their
tiny paws lifted to rub their whiskers or to shield themselves from the
fear under which they lived continually.

They were not all alike--quite the contrary. One, the same who had
washed in my cup, was gray and old, and wise from much dodging of
enemies. His left ear was split from a fight, or an owl's claw,
probably, that just missed him as he dodged under a root. He was at
once the shyest and boldest of the lot. For a day or two he came with
marvelous stealth, making use of every dead leaf and root tangle to hide
his approach, and shooting across the open spaces so quickly that one
knew not what had happened--just a dun streak which ended in nothing.
And the brown leaf gave no sign of what it sheltered. But once assured
of his ground, he came boldly. This great man-creature, with his face
close to the table, perfectly still but for his eyes, with a hand that
moved gently if it moved at all, was not to be feared--that Tookhees
felt instinctively. And this strange fire with hungry odors, and the
white tent, and the comings and goings of men who were masters of the
woods kept fox and lynx and owl far away--that he learned after a day or
two. Only the mink, who crept in at night to steal the man's fish, was
to be feared. So Tookhees presently gave up his nocturnal habits and
came out boldly into the sunlight. Ordinarily the little creatures come
out in the dusk, when their quick movements are hidden among the shadows
that creep and quiver. But with fear gone, they are only too glad to run
about in the daylight, especially when good things to eat are calling
them.

Besides the veteran there was a little mother-mouse, whose tiny gray
jacket was still big enough to cover a wonderful mother love, as I
afterwards found out. She never ate at my table, but carried her fare
away into hiding, not to feed her little ones-they were, too small as
yet--but thinking in some dumb way, behind the bright little eyes, that
they needed her and that her life must be spared with greater precaution
for their sakes. She would steal timidly to my table, always appearing
from under a gray shred of bark on a fallen birch log,