Christopher Mouse: Chapters 12–15

My first impulse was to rush out and flee to safety.

I had only the sketchiest idea of the office layout.

A single wrong turn might land me in an even worse predicament.

A traveler’s life
Is filled with strife—
Don’t try it, you’ll regret it!

With woe and rue
You’ll wander through
Vast buildings dark and dreary.

For food you’ll pine
While others dine.

Ah, rash young mice,
Heed my advice!

Perhaps the soundest plan would be to emerge from the drawer and casually introduce myself.

My throat was so parched already that if I were forced to spend the night without water, I could hardly hope to survive!

There was a menacing pause.

I heard a hubbub behind me.

It was odd, but instead of panic I felt only a sense of resignation.

Enough food and water and a safe place to sleep—the simplest things needed to sustain a creature’s life—how hard they were to obtain.

Looking up at the rim of the bowl, such a short distance above my head and yet so inaccessible, I was tempted to wait there and accept my fate.

I stepped gingerly on the bottom end.

Behind those doors were cakes and cookies, juices and sodas, cheeses of every sort, and quite possibly a few pounds of mixed nuts as well—enough food to maintain an army of white mice for an entire century.

Nor was there a hole or crack anywhere in that unassailable fortress.

At least I could see one favorable omen: she didn’t have an umbrella among her possessions.

I was desperately anxious to make a good impression, yet I knew that my bedraggled appearance worked against me.

I sat back and waited while Walter took out his hat and explained to Abby how he was going to slip up behind and snare me in it without doing any damage to my delicate constitution.

“I’ve got exactly the thing you want!” Doc said. “By sheer coincidence, there’s a special on cages this month. Here is one that would be perfect for a white mouse. Let me see the price—only forty-nine ninety-five!”

And Abby said, with a marvelously intuitive understanding, “I’ll bet he’s thirsty too. Mice must need a good deal of water. I’ll put some in a dish for him.”

I was back in a cage, placed there by two kind owners—and after the experiences I’d had on my own, I didn’t mind the confining bars a bit.

Getting to my feet, I walked sedately up the sleeve of her dress.

I raised my head again and struggled gallantly to my feet.

Under her tender, loving care, my health has been restored: my white coat has regained its glossy sheen; my whiskers have recaptured their former resiliency.

Under her tender, loving care, my health has been restored: my white coat has regained its glossy sheen; my whiskers have recaptured their former resiliency.

Abby is strongest with watercolors and gouaches; Walter is the better draftsman—I’ve heard him say so himself.

Walter thought it was artistic exhaustion, stemming from overwork.

A city like New York must be filled with fickle little girls who grow tired of their pets and return them.