 | Life and sayings of Mrs. Partington and others
of the family |  |
MOUSE-HUNTING;
AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF MRS. PARTINGTON.
It was midnight, deep and still, in the mansion of
Mrs. Partington, — as it was, very generally, about
town, — on a cold night in March. So profound was
the silence that it awakened Mrs. P., and she raised
herself upon her elbow to listen. No sound greeted her
ears, save the tick of the old wooden clock in the next
room, which stood there in the dark, like an old chrone,
whispering and gibbering to itself. Mrs. Partington relapsed
beneath the folds of the blankets, and had one
eye again well-coaxed towards the realm of dreams, while
the other was holding by a very frail tenure upon the
world of reality, when her ear was saluted by the nibble
of a mouse, directly beneath her chamber window, and
the mouse was evidently gnawing her chamber carpet.
Now, if there is an animal in the catalogue of creation
that she dreads and detests, it is a mouse; and she has
a vague and indefinite idea that rats and mice were made
with especial regard to her individual torment. As she
heard the sound of the nibble by the window, she arose
again upon her elbow, and cried “Shoo! Shoo!” energetically,
several times. The sound ceased, and she
fondly fancied that her trouble was over. Again she
laid herself away as carefully as she would have lain
eggs at forty-five cents a dozen, when, — nibble, nibble,
nibble! — she once more heard the odious sound by the
same time hurling her shoe at the spot from whence the
sound proceeded, where the little midnight marauder was
carrying on his depredations.
A light burned upon the hearth, — she could n't sleep
without a light, — and she strained her eyes in vain to
catch a glimpse of her tormentor playing about amid the
shadows of the room. All again was silent, and the
clock, giving an admonitory tremble, struck twelve.
Midnight! and Mrs. Partington counted the tintinabulous
knots as they ran off the reel of Time, with a saddened
heart.
Nibble, nibble, nibble! — again that sound. The
old lady sighed, as she hurled the other shoe at her
invisible annoyance. It was all without avail, and
“shooing” was bootless, for the sound came again to
her wakeful ear. At this point her patience gave out,
and, conquering her dread of the cold, she arose and
opened the door of her room that led to a corridor, when,
taking the light in one hand, and a shoe in the other,
she made the circuit of the room, and explored every
nook and cranny in which a mouse could ensconse himself.
She looked under the bed, and under the old chest
of drawers, and under the washstand, and “shooed”
until she could “shoo” no more.
The reader's own imagination, if he has an imagination
skilled in limning, must draw the picture of the old
lady while upon this exploring expedition, “accoutred
as she was,” in search of the ridiculous mouse. We
have our own opinion upon the subject, and must say,
— with all due deference to the years and virtues of
very striking in one of her years, — we should judge
that she cut a very queer figure, indeed.
Satisfying herself that the mouse must have left the
room, she closed the door, deposited the light upon the
hearth, and again sought repose. How gratefully a
warm bed feels, when exposure to the night air has
chilled us, as we crawl to its enfolding covert! How
we nestle down, like an infant by its mother's breast,
and own no joy superior to that we feel, — coveting no
regal luxury while revelling in the elysium of feathers!
So felt Mrs. P. as she again ensconced herself in bed.
The clock in the next room struck one.
She was again near the attainment of the state when
dreams are rife, when, close by her chamber-door, outside
she heard that hateful nibble renewed which had
marred her peace before. With a groan she arose, and,
seizing her lamp, she opened the door, and had the satisfaction
to hear the mouse drop, step by step, until he
reached the floor below. Convinced that she was now
rid of him for the night, she returned to bed, and
addressed herself to sleep. The room grew dim, in the
weariness of her spirit, the chest of drawers in the corner
was fast losing its identity and becoming something else;
in a moment more — nibble, nibble, nibble! again
outside of the chamber-door, as the clock in the next
room struck two.
Anger, disappointment, desperation, fired her mind
with a new determination. Once more she arose, but
this time she put on a shoe! — her dexter shoe. Ominous
movement! It is said that when a woman wets her
destiny was setting, and was now near the horizon. She
opened the door quickly, and, as she listened a moment,
she heard him drop again from stair to stair, on a speedy
passage down.
The entry below was closely secured, and no door was
open to admit of his escape. This she knew, and a
triumphant gleam shot athwart her features, revealed by
the rays of the lamp. She went slowly down the stairs,
until she arrived at the floor below, where, snugly in a
corner, with his little bead-like black eyes looking up at
her roguishly, was the gnawer of her carpet, and the
annoyer of her comfort. She moved towards him, and
he, not coveting the closer acquaintance, darted by her.
She pursued him to the other end of the entry, and
again he passed by her. Again and again she pursued
him, with no better success. At last, when in most
doubt as to which side would conquer, Fortune, perched
upon the banister, turned the scale in favor of Mrs. P.
The mouse, in an attempt to run by her, presumed too
much upon former success. He came too near her
upraised foot. It fell upon his musipilar beauties, like
an avalanche of snow upon a new tile, and he was dead
forever! Mrs. Partington gazed upon him as he lay
before her. Though she was glad at the result, she
could but sigh at the necessity which impelled the violence;
but for which the mouse might have long continued
a blessing to the society in which he moved.
With her shoe all sullied and gory;
And the watch, who saw 't through the front door squares,
Told us this part of the story.
That mouse did not trouble Mrs. Partington again
that night, and the old clock in the next room struck
three before sleep again visited the eyelids of the relict
of Corporal Paul.
| Life and sayings of Mrs. Partington and others
of the family | |