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How everything that was beautiful and tender and helpless in nature appealed to him we know from his poems. There is the field mouse the "wee sleekit,* cow'rin', tim'rous beastie," whose nest he turned up and destroyed in his November plowing. "Poor little mouse, I would not hurt you," he says *Smooth. "Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin; Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'!"
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 prattle! The decayed hollows which we have mentioned as so often productive of little owls have their possibilities by no means exhausted by one visit.
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