No.
The nest fell out and hit you on the head?
No.
You ran back into the house again out of the rain?
Yes, I did, and I went straight to the window and looked out again at the robin’s nest,—my deserted, ruined robin’s nest, with its thick thatch of waterproof cedar bark, with its little round door-hole in the side, with its soft furry bed, all toasty warm, out of which with my tapping tongs I had just roused White-Foot and brought him sleepy-eyed to look down at me from his door.
The rain continued to fall down; but my spirits went up, and up, at the thought of that little mouse all safe and warm for the winter in Robin’s deserted nest.
And so, if “there are no birds in last year’s nest,” as mourns a doleful poem, you need not be sad on that account, for if you look closely, you may find, now and then, a mouse in last year’s nest—and who will say that finding a mouse in a bird’s nest is not almost as interesting as finding a bird there?
A robin’s nest in the winter-time would be the wettest, muddiest, coldest place in the world for a robin; but a mouse can take that old robin’s nest and turn it into a snuggery (if you know what a “snuggery” is) so cozy and warm that neither the tip of Mr. Mouse’s sharp nose, nor the tip of his thin ears, nor the tippy-tip of his long bare tail ever feels one sharp nip of the cold outside.
So, if there are no birds in last year’s nest (as surely there ought not to be), take your tongs and tap, or, better, climb up, and reach gently into the nest with your finger, for a mouse may be waiting inside to bite you,—and that would be interesting.
For a mouse is interesting—just as interesting in his mousy ways as a whale in his whalish ways, or a robin in his ways. Can you name anything that does not grow interesting as soon as you begin to watch and study it? Large things, small things, Bengal tigers or earthworms—all things will surprise and interest you if you will study them for a season.