Then there is a general hubbub, servants rush together with the longest sticks they can find, the children are hurried away to a place of safety, the master appears on the scene, armed with his gun, and the Wee, sleekit, cowrin', tim'rous beastie, trying to slip away from the fuss which it dislikes so much, is headed, and blown, or battered, to pieces.
Hardly a piece of his, large or small, but has "snap" and raciness. "Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie:"
Mus ridiculus! The taunt had been flung at him by a stout field-vole, and, by reason of its novelty as well as of its intrinsic impertinence, had sunk deep into his memory. He had felt at the time that "Wee sleekit, cowrin', tim'rous beastie" was but a poor rejoinder. But he knew no Latin and chose what was next in obscurity. Besides, he was a young mouse then, and breathless with excitement.