L. Molesworth.
THE THREE BLIND MICE.
THE STORY TOLD BY A BROWNIE.
Well, first of all, I must tell you that I am a Brownie, and although I am ever and ever so old, I look as young to-day as I did when I was but one year old. Well, it was about seven hundred years ago, and I used to be a great deal with some other Brownies, cousins of mine, visiting at the same farm-houses as they did, and helping them with their work. And it was in this way that I got to know the Three Blind Mice,—Purrin, Furrin, and Tod.
Pretty, pleasant little fellows they were; and they were not blind then,—far from it. They lived up in the loft of Dame Marjoram’s room, over at Fiveoaks Farm.
Such merry supper-parties as never were, I think, before or since, we used to have then. We would think nothing of finishing a round of apple and a walnut-shell full of honey between us, in one evening, to say nothing of scraps of cheese-rind and the crumbs we stole from the birds. Purrin had a most melodious voice, and could sing a good song, while Tod was never at a loss for an amusing story. As to Furrin, he was almost as quaint as our Mr. Puck, and, though perhaps it is not for me to say so, when those in high places do encourage him, not one-tenth as mischievous.
When Angelina, the old stable cat, had kittens, he would get into all sorts of out-of-the-way places, and imitate their squeaky little voices, so that she was always on the fidget, thinking she must have mislaid one somewhere, and never able to find it. For you see, as she could not count, she never knew whether they were all beside her or no. Often he would coax a whole hazel-nut out of Rudge, the Squirrel, who lived on the Hanger, just above, and whom every one believed to be a miser. And then his Toasting-fork Dance was so sprightly and graceful, it did your heart good to see it. Ah, me! those days are gone, and Furrin is gone too; and the Moon, when she looks through that chink in the barn roof, no longer sees us feasting and making merry on the great beam.
And this is how they became blind:
They were very fond of Gilliflower, Dame Marjoram’s little daughter, and after the nurse had put her to bed, Furrin, Purrin, and Tod used to creep up into her room, and read her some of the funny little tales from Mouse-land till she went to sleep. She would lie there with her eyes shut, and perhaps imagined that it was her own thoughts that made her fancy all about the fairy tales that came into her head; but really it was the mice who read them to her, but in such a low voice that Gilliflower never thought of opening her eyes to see if any one was there. I must tell you that the print in Mouse-land is very, very small and hard to read. This did not matter so much during the long Summer evenings, when there was plenty of light to see to read by; but when the Winter came on, and the mice had only the firelight to read by, then reading the small print began to tell its tale. You know how bad it is for the eyesight to read any print by firelight, and it must be very much worse when the print is very small; and so Furrin would say to Purrin, “My eyes are getting quite dim, so now you must read;” and before Purrin had read a page he would say the same thing to Tod, and then Tod would try; but after a time their eyes became so dim they couldn’t see at all, and so they had to invent stories to tell little Gilliflower; so the poor little mice went quite blind, trying to amuse their little girl friend.