THE white-footed mouse, unlike the house mouse, is a handsome fellow. He sports a chestnut coat, a white vest, reddish brown trousers, and white stockings. His eyes and ears are uncommonly large, causing his head to resemble a deer's in miniature. This resemblance has bestowed upon him the name of "deer-mouse." He is also called "wood-mouse," but is known to science as Hesperomys leucopus.
My object in writing about these mice is to call attention to their peculiar method of communication. I have summered and wintered them over fifteen years, and never have I heard one of them utter a vocal sound. They communicate with each other by drumming with their fore feet, or, rather, they drum with their toes, for the foot in the act is held rigid while the toes move.
If any writer has called attention to this peculiar method of communication, it has escaped my reading. I am well satisfied that the habit has never been published before, so it must prove interesting to those who pry into the secrets of Dame Nature.
The white-footed mouse has taken possession of my cabin. Until a year ago the mice were kept in check by stoats, but for some reason the stoats have failed to appear, and the mice are increasing rapidly. I find their nests in every nook and corner. I go bareheaded the most of the time, so it happens that when I do need a hat I find it occupied by an enterprising mouse and her family. Now a few mice for company in the winter evenings would not be objectionable, but I draw the line when they become so numerous that I am forced to eat and sleep with them. They are too cunning and intelligent to be kept in check by traps. I have tried all kinds of traps, only to find them useless. Last winter I bought a wire rat-trap—the kind with a trencher that tips and slides the rat into the space below. The trap was a failure. The mice were highly delighted with the contrivance, and from the first used the trencher as a door leading into and out of the trap.
How does it happen that these shy inhabitants of the woods are more intelligent than the cunning citrat?
Some writers tell us that the lower animals cannot reason. In such case it ought to be an easy matter for man to outwit a lot of foolish little mice. I tried the experiment by fixing a wire to the trencher in such a way as to give me full control. When the mice were engaged on the food in the trap I pulled my wire and made it fast. The next morning my prisoners numbered twenty-eight. I was about to drown the lot, when several pets clung to the upper wires of the trap, and the mute appeal in their great wild eyes softened my foolish heart, and I thought it would be more humane to lose them in the woods. I carried them nearly a mile from the cabin, and turned them out near some big boulders. I left a supply of food, and promised myself to feed them from time to time. Two nights later they were all back in the cabin. Upon investigation I found that they had followed my footsteps. I could see their tracks in the snow where they had trooped along in short journeys. At the end of each journey the tracks would disappear under a boulder or a tree, only to appear again, but always heading for the cabin.
I baited and fixed the trap, while the mice scampered about, evidently celebrating their return. I told them plainly that this was their last night on earth; that I had outwitted them once and would now outwit them again. But all my boasting came to naught. Not a mouse would enter that trap while the wire was on the trencher. The third night I removed the wire, and the mice entered the trap without fear.
Vainglorious man had pitted his wit against the wit of these little rodents, and the rodents had triumphed. Every sportsman knows how it is. He finds the wild things just as intelligent and crafty as man with all his boasted superiority.
I desire to emphasize what I have already stated as to the peculiar method employed by these mice when communicating with each other.
If any one has been fortunate enough to have heard a vocal sound uttered by a white-footed mouse, I shall greatly like to hear of the fact. A daily and nightly knowledge of these little mice for more than fifteen years has led me to believe that they are completely dumb. They talk with their toes just as deaf and dumb people talk with their fingers, only they are guided by the ear instead of the eye. Proof that they are talking together is found in the fact that they go on with the drumming when in full view of each other. When calling to attract attention, they drum a long roll which corresponds to the halloo of the telephone. The answer is the same; afterward the rolls are variously interrupted. Through the winter months the mice about my cabin look to me for food. By catering to their wants I have mastered their calls for food and water. I keep a loaf of bread on the floor, and it is no unusual thing to see a dozen mice eating and fighting around the food. Whenever I forget to supply the bread, the mice come out of their nests and drum the long roll, the call over their telephone, to attract my attention. If I am reading or writing and do not heed the call, they continue the long roll, drumming on books, tinware, papers, and on the wooden shelves. The moment I look up or speak, all hands drum the food-call, a long followed by a short roll.
The call for water is two short rolls. The danger-call is two long rolls drummed rapidly and vigorously. The young mice learn to drum when nearly full-grown, but understand and answer the drumming of the mother-mouse when quite young. I have had proof of this more times than I can remember.
An old mouse, a pet of long standing, on cool nights takes her family to the roof of the cabin. The roof is warm and makes an ideal playground for the little ones. Here they race and romp until daylight, when the mother-mouse puts them to bed for the day. Soon after I hear the mice on the roof, early in the evening, the old mouse comes down to see if food and water are on hand. If she finds things all right, she takes a drink and then calls her family down. As near as I can make it out, she drums three rolls, a long roll between two short rolls. Anyhow, the young mice understand, and scamper down and drink and eat, after a harum-scarum fashion. The old mouse drums to me if there is no water in the dish. The young mice must hear this drumming, but pay no attention to it, which proves that they understand the different calls. The old mouse drums on the tin wash-dish, and her claws make a sound that rings out loud and clear. She drums first the long roll to attract my attention, and then drums the water-call. If food is wanted, she drums the food-call after attracting attention.
"IT CARRIES ITS VICTIM BY THE MIDDLE."
The white-footed mouse has a deadly enemy in the weasel family, the stoat, or ermine, which pursues its defenceless victims every month in the year. I seldom see a small weasel, but the stoat is common in this vicinity.
While a stoat is rearing its young, the life of the white-footed mouse is made miserable. By day and by night its bloodthirsty foe is on the trail. It is no unusual thing to see a stoat running along the wall back of the cabin with a mouse in its mouth. It carries its victim by the middle, and always reminds me of the picture of a tiger carrying off a Hottentot. Some of the old mice are quick-witted and full of resource, and escape danger, otherwise the species would soon be exterminated. There is an auger-hole in one of the logs inside the cabin that affords a mouse a safe retreat. Several times I have seen a stoat thrust its paw into the hole, only to jerk it out in hot haste. A drop of blood on the log would show that the mouse had defended itself with its sharp teeth.
There are three mice about my cabin that for years have managed to escape the stoats. Time after time I have saved the lives of these mice. The three are pets, and intelligent enough to know that I will protect them from their fierce and relentless foe. In the night-time, if hard pressed, they dive into my bed, while by day they sound the danger-call, knowing full well that I will come to the rescue and drive away their enemy.
To a stranger these mice look as much alike as peas in a pod, but for me they possess individualities as marked and distinct as could be found in three human beings. One of the three, the mouse that uses the roof for a playground, always nests under a stone wall just back of the cabin. Number two nests in the cabin summer and winter. When the weather is warm she makes a nest on a high shelf, but in cold weather her nest is on the floor under a pile of newspapers. Number three nests where I nest. When I sleep in the cabin, the nest of this mouse is always there. When I sleep in the open air, under a roof to keep off the rain, the mouse follows me, nesting under newspapers or in a box which I supply. If she has a family when I move, it does not prevent her from following me. She makes ready a nest, and then takes her family to the new quarters.
For keen intelligence mouse number two takes the lead. All through the summer months she makes a nest on a high shelf in the cabin. When there is a fire in the stove the heat becomes oppressive in the top of the cabin, and the young mice would perish if it were not for the intelligence of the old mouse.
When I fill the stove with wood the old mouse understands just what will take place. She knows that I am about to kindle a fire, and she rushes to a shelf near the stove and frantically drums the danger-signal. She also does a lot of drumming which I do not understand. She tries to tell me in her dumb language that a fire will destroy her little family. When the mouse finds that I do not heed her appeal, she knows that her family will be destroyed, and can be saved only by her own hasty efforts. The one thing to do is to remove her babies to a place far away from the death-dealing heat. If the young mice are small, in some mysterious way the mother-mouse induces each youngster to cling to a teat, when the whole family is removed in this novel manner to a safe retreat beneath the cabin. It is a comical sight to see the old mouse crawling along a log with eight or ten raw, shapeless things clinging to her like grim death. The hole in the wall that leads outside is small, and the old mouse has a long struggle to get her load safely through. Now and then a young mouse drops off and remains squirming where it chances to fall. The mother invariably returns and gathers in the missing.
When the young mice are half-grown, they are removed in a different manner. They are now too large to be dragged as before. They are also too large to be carried by the neck. The mother overcomes this difficulty by doubling up the young mouse and then grasping it by the crossed legs. The young mouse turns its head inward and holds it in place by biting on to one of its own legs. In this way a young mouse is made up into a round, compact bundle. When the hole in the wall is reached it often happens that the mother cannot push her load through. After several unsuccessful efforts she turns about and backs through the hole, dragging the load after her.
All in all, the white-footed mouse has afforded me much pleasure, but at times it becomes a nuisance. At one time my cabin was haunted by a strange sound. The sound was simple enough, only a sharp click repeated over and over. Sometimes, however, the performance would change to a succession of clicks. For six weeks I vainly tried to solve the mystery. At last the clicking became downright annoying. It would break up my line of thought when writing. It would confuse my mind when reading, and I often jokingly asserted that this mysterious ghostly click, click would send me to the insane asylum.
At last I traced the sound to a shelf where I had placed an empty cigar-box. I investigated, and the mystery was solved. A dozen mice occupied the box as a safe retreat from their enemy, the stoat. Whenever a mouse entered or left the box the cover was raised, and, falling into its place again, made the click that had so annoyed me.
The box-cover was heavy enough to severely pinch a mouse's tail, but the cunning mice had provided for this danger. A hole about the size of a lead-pencil had been gnawed in the side of the box, just below the cover, and afforded a channel for the tail, while it was too small to attract the attention of a stoat.
A more cunningly contrived retreat from an enemy could not be invented. It shows that this wild mouse of the woods possesses intelligence which passes far beyond the powers of instinct.
It would take a volume to record the incidents that have transpired in connection with these mice during the fifteen years of my hermit life.
MOLE.
Some of these incidents are comical, others pathetic, and, alas! others are tragic. One in the comical line happened to a young man from the city who thirsted for more knowledge of the wild things. He stayed one moonlight evening to see the mice eat. It often happened, when the mice were gathered about a loaf of bread, that a star-nosed mole would appear and scatter them in all directions. If I chanced to be sitting near, it was no unusual thing for a mouse to run up my trousers-leg. I kindly allowed the young man the post of honor near the bread. Just what I expected took place. The mole appeared, and a frightened mouse rushed up the young man's trousers-leg. With a war-whoop that would have frightened an Indian, he bounded into the dooryard. The mouse escaped from beneath his coat-collar before he got out of the cabin. The young fellow danced around like a crazy man. Whenever his clothes touched him he thought the mouse was getting in its deadly work, and administered slaps that must have raised blisters. When I could control my laughter I told him that the mouse had escaped. I could not induce him to enter the cabin again.
The nests of these mice are globular, but are varied to fit the surroundings. Near the cabin they are made of bits of paper matted with cotton-batting and a soft wool manufactured by the mice from my old clothes.
The nests remote from the cabin are made of bits of dried leaves, grasses, and plant-down. These last are usually placed in a tangle of catbrier. Many of these nests are occupied through the winter. I examined one last week. It was about five inches in diameter, and was composed of bits of leaves and milk-weed silk. It was rain and frost proof.
I sometimes find nests in tin cans. Once I found a nest in a paper bag. The paper bag was in a tangle of catbrier. It was nearly three feet from the ground, and doubtless was lodged where found by the wind.
The mother-mouse is devoted to the welfare of her little family, which may number anywhere from four to ten. When the young mice are small they are raw-looking things, but are tough, wiry, and tenacious of life. At this stage, full-grown moles would destroy a family in a few seconds, if it were not for the watchful care of the mother.
As the young mice grow they change their coats to a dark lead color, which they retain until the first moult.
The white-footed mouse will eat about everything edible found in the woods. It is fond of mushrooms, and never, like human beings, eats of the poisonous varieties. I am sorry to state that it will eat young birds if small and helpless. It eats insects, berries, seeds, nuts, bread, cheese, and all kinds of meat.
It stores up food for winter in holes in the ground and in hollow trees and logs. The mice about my cabin store food in anything that comes handy. I sometimes find a shoe half-full of nuts and corn.
The white-footed mouse makes an interesting pet when caged. One that reared a family in captivity afforded me many proofs of intelligence.
When the cabin was too cold for the little ones she made them warm and cozy in a globular nest. If the temperature went up she removed the top of the nest, and if the heat from the stove fell directly into the cage she piled up the surplus nesting material on the side to protect her young.
The mole that I mentioned before, the one that scatters the mice, is a singing mole. He zigzags about the cabin floor, picking up crumbs, while he sings birdlike notes that are as sweet and distinct as the canary's low twitter. I see other moles, but I have never heard but this one sing.
