It is highly probable that the susceptibility of rats and mice to the influence of musical sounds has been known for ages. The legend of the Pied Piper of Hamelin is by no means recent, nor is it confined to European peoples alone; in one form or another it exists among Asiatic, Indian, and Indo-Malayan races. In all the legends, the rats or mice are drawn together by sounds emanating from some kind of musical instrument.
A celebrated violinist told me that, at one period of his life, he lived in a house that fairly swarmed with rats. He noticed that these creatures were peculiarly susceptible to minor chords, or to compositions played in minors, and that quick, lively music would bring them forth from their lurking-places in great numbers. A few abrupt, dissonant discords would, invariably, send them scurrying to their holes.
Another violinist informs me that several mice living in his room are influenced by the music of his violin; when he plays an andante movement very softly, they appear to listen intently and to enjoy the music; but when he plays an allegro in quick time and loud, they quickly run away. The organist of the First Presbyterian Church of Owensboro, Kentucky,[63] tells me that when he lived in Cuba, New York, a mouse dwelt beneath a bookcase in his room, and that he often performed the following experiment: Seating himself at the piano, he would begin improvising softly. In a few moments the mouse would come from beneath the bookcase, approach the centre of the room, and, standing on its hind feet, would listen intently to the music. A loud chord on the piano would send it scampering away to its home. He would then resume his pianissimo improvisation, and the mouse would soon return to its former station near the centre of the room, only to vanish again as soon as the loud chords were struck.
A violinist of Louisville, Kentucky, Mr. Karl Benedik, told me, on one occasion, that he had repeatedly noticed that several mice, which lived in his room, were influenced by the music of his violin. When he played an andante movement pianissimo, they would appear to listen with pleasure; but when he played an allegro in quick tempo and forte, they immediately ran away.
Mice not only enjoy the music of others, but sometimes make music themselves. My father enjoyed nightly concerts or serenades, for a long time, from some "singing mice" in his library. I was fortunate enough to hear this novel concert on one occasion. The mice, two in number, came out from beneath the casing of the fireplace. They took places on the hearth, several feet distant from one another, and first one, and then the other, sang. Their songs were low and musical, not unlike the song of the canary, though there were no cadenzas or fioritura passages. They seemed to use six notes, these notes being repeated in melodious sequences. I noticed, several times, a run of four notes in ascending scale. On another occasion, in my bedroom, I heard a mouse sing his pleasing little song over and over again.
Miss Ada Sterling, editor of Fashions, writes me as follows:—
"... Anent your paper ... I have had some curious experiences of a similar nature; one was in an uncarpeted room, the house being deserted at that time. I stood still, planning certain things and humming softly to myself. Presently, a shadowy something caught my eye, and I discovered a little mouse, very young evidently, then another and another, until four were near. I did not attribute their tameness to music, and in surprise turned to see if there were others about. Instantly they scampered off, my action having frightened them.
"When I finally arrived at the conclusion that music had attracted them, I sat down and began to hum, this time with an open sound instead of a closed tone, and in a second the little creatures were out again, standing perfectly still, as if the sound gave them delight. Gradually I swelled the tone, and yet they were undisturbed until I became too bold and gave a clear, sharp, full sound, and this at once frightened them.
"I experimented in this way for more than a month, never missing my audience once, and by this time the little creatures, grown so fat and bold as to cause serious damage, were ruthlessly caught and killed.
"I heard Kate Field, about four years ago, when, as the guest of Mr. Stedman, she told several interesting stories, relate an experience of her own, wherein, one night early in her life, she had leaned against the walls of the Campanile, gray and phantom-like in the moonlight, and, singing softly to herself, was surprised at discovering several little lizards lying about on the stones, their heads held alertly in the air as if entranced by the sound of her voice. She, too, experimented with the varying sounds, and from time to time, and evidently looked back upon the experiment as one of rare interest to herself."