n kept one eye shut a long time on first waking
up. After the apple-blossoms came, I kept her box supplied with flowers,
such as apple-blossoms, cherry, spruce, maple, and so on. Also I kept
her box disinfected, with plenty of good, fresh country dirt. But she
stuck to the old wool and feathers, and the little piano-duster."

The mouse continued hibernating at intervals till May. One damp, chilly
morning Miss Burt thought she would add to her pet's coverings, the
creature seemed so cold to the touch. "Little by little, much of her
bedding of wool had been removed, although she had a pretty good blanket
of it left, and the feather duster over her, which she appropriated long
ago. So I resolved to carry some bits of flannel to school and, when I
went to her box to give her the extra clothing, again found her as you
saw her, rolled up in a ball. I covered her carefully, wrapped her all
up, and put her back. Later in the day I peeped in, and she was awake.
In the afternoon I took her out in her little blanket and looked at her.
She was asleep, but started up, and, seeing herself out of her box, put
up her little paw in fright. She trembled violently, and I hastily
returned her to her box, but before I could cover her she fell back dead
of fright." Miss Burt adds: "I have had her put in alcohol. One tiny paw
is raised imploringly, suggestive of the sensitive nerves that caused
her death."

XIV

GLIMPSES OF WILD LIFE

So fond am I of seeing Nature reassert herself that I even found some
compensation in the loss of my chickens that bright November night when
some wild creature, coon or fox, swept two of them out of the
evergreens, and their squawking as they were hurried across the lawn
called me from my bed to shout good-by after them. It gave a new
interest to the hen-roost, this sudden incursion of wild nature. I feel
bound to caution the boys about disturbing the wild rabbits that in
summer breed in my currant-patch, and in autumn seek refuge under my
study floor. The occasional glimpses I get of them about the lawn in the
dusk, their cotton tails twinkling in the dimness, afford me a genuine
pleasure. I have seen the time when I would go a good way to shoot a
partridge; but I would not have killed, if I could, the one that started
out of the vines that cover my rustic porch, as I approached that side
of the house one autumn morning. How much of the woods, and of the
untamable spirit of wild nature, she brought