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Updated: May 18, 2025
Then he flung himself recklessly in every direction, bruising his poor body against the unyielding bars, desperate, grimy, pitiable. Nature intervened at length, and lulled him into a semi-conscious, dream-bound indifference. There was something to be said for the stack-life, after all. All good stacks come to an end, but, while they last, it is honey for the mouse-folk.
The scene rose vividly before him the moon shining grimly overhead, and the mouse-folk stealing from the half-threshed stack across two fields into the farmstead. Since that night he had never entered a wheat-stack, for fear of the leaving of it. For there are some things which, from a mouse standpoint, will not bear repetition.
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