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He lay face downwards two tiny fists tight-clenched against his cheeks, his feet curled up to meet them, his tail swung gracefully across his eyes. Nine weeks had he lain thus, self-entombed. Within the hollow of the old hazel-stump he had fashioned a rough sphere of honeysuckle bark; within this, again, a nest of feathery grass stems. He had put the roof on last of all.
One of them struck the side of the hazel-stump and bounded off like an elastic ball. Before the dormouse had collected his wits, a fine kernel was thrust through the nest and the squirrel had once more regained her bough. "Eat it," she shrieked; "eat it before the sun goes down. It's going now." And it was.
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