“But, talking about weasels, I’ll tell you a story, Ida.”
The Owl and the Weasel.
“From yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl doth to the moon complain,
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.”
“By what you tell me,” I said, “I can now guess where all my wild rabbits have gone.”
I was talking to a weasel. And indeed the weasel seemed talking to me, for he stood upon his hind-legs, on the balcony, staring in at me through the French window that opens from my study on to the long shady lawn. As I did not move, he had a good look at me, and I think he felt satisfied that I was not likely to harm him.
“Yes,” I continued; “under that verandah, under the wooden balcony where you now stand, used to dwell six wild rabbits, and did I not delight to see them gambolling on the grass on the early summer mornings, the while the blackbirds, the thrush, and the mavis enjoyed the bath placed on purpose for them under the shade of the scented syringas.”
“Well,” replied the weasel, with a little toss of the head, “I dwell there now, and very comfortable I find the quarters.”
“And the rabbits?” I inquired.
“Good morning!” said the weasel, and it departed.