As the young mice grow they change their coats to a dark lead color, which they retain until the first moult.
The white-footed mouse will eat about everything edible found in the woods. It is fond of mushrooms, and never, like human beings, eats of the poisonous varieties. I am sorry to state that it will eat young birds if small and helpless. It eats insects, berries, seeds, nuts, bread, cheese, and all kinds of meat.
It stores up food for winter in holes in the ground and in hollow trees and logs. The mice about my cabin store food in anything that comes handy. I sometimes find a shoe half-full of nuts and corn.
The white-footed mouse makes an interesting pet when caged. One that reared a family in captivity afforded me many proofs of intelligence.
When the cabin was too cold for the little ones she made them warm and cozy in a globular nest. If the temperature went up she removed the top of the nest, and if the heat from the stove fell directly into the cage she piled up the surplus nesting material on the side to protect her young.
The mole that I mentioned before, the one that scatters the mice, is a singing mole. He zigzags about the cabin floor, picking up crumbs, while he sings birdlike notes that are as sweet and distinct as the canary's low twitter. I see other moles, but I have never heard but this one sing.
VII.
THREE YEARS LATER
The next spring, after my attempt to thin out the white-footed mice, the stoats returned. I did not molest them, and they reduced the number of mice in short order. Mouse number two had a little family in a nest on a shelf. They were mice-babies, helpless and sprawling. They were dragged out of the nest by one of the stoats, and were killed one at a time. The stoat was obliged to make three trips to remove the pile of dead mice. The mother had escaped by way of the stone wall at the rear of the cabin. After the slaughter was over, she returned and did a lot of drumming. I think she was reproaching me because I did not drive the stoat away. It made me feel guilty, but I had hardened my heart, on account of a valuable manuscript which this mouse had purloined and reduced to scraps, with which to decorate her last nest.
The following morning I saw the mother come into the cabin with a baby mouse in her mouth. I thought it might be one of her own dropped by the stoat. But I was soon undeceived. The mouse left, and soon returned with another little one. This time I examined the young mice. They did not belong to my mouse family. They were strangers to me. The old mouse cared for these babies as if they were her own. I expect that the stoats had killed the mother, and my mouse had adopted the orphans.