Mouse Chronicles - I thought these would have gone away long before the
last patch of snow...
Of mice and "men"
Tiki, our CI bottle-fed resident from last October (BB A meet weekend), was
the last live-in in the house but, of course, a special mouse having been
held and fed by hand. Beth offered him freedom about a week ago but hedged her bet by setting the hav-a-hart trap right next to the CI (on the bathroom counter). Sure enough, old peanut butter was irresistable. Tiki
returned to the CI pending further discussion. About 4 days ago, the doors
were opened a second time with no "tricky-dick" peanut butter in the
shadows. Several days passed. It was all too quiet in the BR at night. The
wheel did not spin. What self-respecting mouse WOULD return to a cage, even if it was of CI quality? But last night, as Beth was coming upstairs, she heard the wheel turning.....Tiki had returned to his favorite spot on
Earth, the observation suite where he lives in a ball of spun yarn along
with a large pile of seeds. And perhaps a secure future (free from cats
anyway).
Of "men" there are more enjoyable things to do than consider the likes of
Bush, Cheney, Rove, Rumsfeld, Trump, Cain, Perry, Gingrich, Romney,
Santorum. What do all these men have in common...they should be put in a
cage. Send some to prison, the rest to the circus.
Robert Burns
"To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough"
1785
Type: Poem
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!