And so the sun went down blood-red.
It was midnight, however, before the remnant gathered themselves together, and agreed on flight. The trek was headed by an old brown rat. Of the dozen that survived it, he was the only mouse.
Better, after all, to have never finished the journey, and, yet, why should he complain? He had lived longer than most, and had had his supreme moments.
“‘The mouse behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d.’”
He had been dozing behind the wainscot in the dining-room, and the squeak of irritation had been due to a passing spider. The apt quotation reached him through the panel.
“Squeaked, surely?” The correction came in a soft, woman’s voice.
“No, shrieked; I am certain of it.”
“Squeaked, I think; a mouse doesn’t shriek.”