Christopher Mouse: Chapters 1–4

A few pieces of lettuce and a few lumps of cheese were strewn here and there.

My mother did not reply at once. She frowned and twitched her whiskers reflectively for several moments, and then I heard her sigh.

When I turned, I saw that a stout woman with bright red hair had come into the room.

Many people think we dote on cheese, that it’s our favorite food, but this simply is not true.

And yet, she was not entirely devoid of kindness, for she also provided us with a weekly treat of salted nuts.

We nodded solemnly. Our usual playfulness had disappeared.

It was clear that what she intended to say was important. It seemed equally clear that some of it could be rather grim.

The memory of her other children filled my mother’s eyes with tears. To gain a little time to recover her composure, she turned and took a sip or two of water from the dish.

People love us for our energy and our antics, our pink noses and soft fur, our curiosity, and what some foolish souls are reputed to call our ‘cuddlesomeness.’

We are said to have winning ways, and accordingly we are generally well treated.

My mother looked at me reproachfully, as though she wished I hadn’t brought the matter up.

Probably half the white mice in laboratories live splendid lives. They have plenty of companions, good food, and many diversions to keep them occupied.

While awaiting the day of our departure, the five of us did not remain idle. One morning my mother announced that we were old enough to begin our schooling.

My mother, of course, had heard Mrs. Crimmins too, and for several hours she ran frantically back and forth inside our cage, scarcely able to restrain her anguish or conceal her tears.

My mother, of course, had heard Mrs. Crimmins too, and for several hours she ran frantically back and forth inside our cage, scarcely able to restrain her anguish or conceal her tears.

The next day Mother lost the first game. She smiled serenely and said to me, “You see, Christopher, I’m not making a fuss, am I? No sulks, no tears. Winning doesn’t mean that much to me.”

When—quite unaccountably—she lost the third game as well, she stifled a tremendous yawn and said, “I’m too sleepy to play any longer. Besides, Anna, if we’re to enjoy the game, you mustn’t count as fast as you’ve been doing today. And Christopher, ‘Reindeer Cheese’ was not fair...it was a trick...and that’s the only reason I lost!”

When—quite unaccountably—she lost the third game as well, she stifled a tremendous yawn and said, “I’m too sleepy to play any longer. Besides, Anna, if we’re to enjoy the game, you mustn’t count as fast as you’ve been doing today. And Christopher, ‘Reindeer Cheese’ was not fair...it was a trick...and that’s the only reason I lost!”

“Don’t be sassy, Christopher. You know I don’t like that.”

At night, when the room grew dark, my mother knew that Anna and I felt restless, and that fear of the future often made us uneasy. She talked to us soothingly and tried to teach us how to be more philosophical.

“For instance, take the field mice—how dreadful their lives are. Twenty-four hours a day they’re surrounded by enemies. Cats and snakes, hawks and weasels—some predator’s always on their trail, hunting them down. When winter comes and food grows scarce, they often go hungry. And their living conditions! Rain or shine they’re out of doors, their home a damp tunnel in the ground, or a drafty hollow in the corner of a barn. No safe, comfortable cage for them, inside a warm, familiar room!”

“There are those who say it’s better to be free,” my mother conceded.

My mother’s sober expression grew more cheerful.

For several days we talked this way, and our conversations not only helped the time to pass but also kept Anna and me from thinking too much about our imminent departure.

It was hot inside the dark, swaying box, and I suppose that many a creature would have become seasick in such uncomfortable quarters.

The puppies play less frantically until at last, overcome with weariness, they curl up in their pens and fall asleep.

Some of the older birds and animals begin to reminisce about the various places they’ve been and the things they’ve seen.

The Parrot had lived for several years in Greenwich Village. “My Bohemian period,” he said to us one night.

“The best years of my life—for, without doubt, my owner was an extraordinary artist, a brilliant poet, a towering and original genius. He enjoyed having me perform at parties and taught me to recite all sorts of things: his puns and riddles; his quips, sallies and ripostes; and, of course, some of his poetry, which was absolutely—he said so himself—the most brilliant intellectual achievement of the last five hundred years.”

“The best years of my life—for, without doubt, my owner was an extraordinary artist, a brilliant poet, a towering and original genius. He enjoyed having me perform at parties and taught me to recite all sorts of things: his puns and riddles; his quips, sallies and ripostes; and, of course, some of his poetry, which was absolutely—he said so himself—the most brilliant intellectual achievement of the last five hundred years.”

“The answer is,” said the Parrot, “that while in an especially bad temper, the Dead End said one night to the Cul-de-Sac, ‘We are not a mews!’”

They both tried to explain what “Cul-de-Sac” meant, as well as “Dead End” and “mews,” and then each began to talk excitedly about Queen Victoria, and what the point of the joke was—so that by the time Anna and I understood what the joke had been, everyone was thoroughly sick of riddle-and-pun combinations.

What felicity of language. What elegance of phrase.

He gnawed morosely on one of the bars and said, “Very well, just for you, my dear, because you’re young and eager to learn. Here’s “To a Lady on Wearing a Hat Which She Shouldn’t.’”

In a grudging voice he said, “Well, perhaps another time. Maybe tomorrow night, if you can promise me we’ll have no more of the crude, rude, and repulsive interruptions that we’ve had tonight.”