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IN one of my school readMcGuffey's third or fourth, I think there was the story of a musical mouse. As a child I read this tale with wondering interest. A little later in life I was to see it verified.

I was a boy of perhaps sixteen when I learned to play a few chords and melodies on the guitar. As I had mastered these for my own amusement, and suspected that my pleasure was not always shared by other members of the family, I often retired to my own upstairs room to enjoy it alone. Here at length I found one listener, at least, who was attracted by my performance. Perhaps his ear for music was not very refined.

In one end of my room there was an old fireplace about which there lived a few mice-not many, for we had a band of cats that roamed over the house at will. One night, as I sat playing, I heard a slight noise on the hearth. Glancing down, I saw a very small and meagerlooking mouse. It was crouched as if ready to spring. It faced me, and its eyes shone like small black buttons. As I stopped playing, it moved its head about uneasily, and seemed uncertain what to do. Presently it ran back into the wall, stopping every few inches as if to listen.

I watched where it had disappeared, and began playing again. In a few moments I saw the glint of its eager eyes. Then it crept out, little by little, crouching in its former position on the hearth. I played on softly, and sat very still. It crept closer and closer, and pretty soon sat upright, its fore paws crossed, and its head tipped a little to one side, in a pose that was both comic and pathetic. I struck a few

louder chords, and it perked up instantly in an attitude of extreme attention. I mellowed the music, and continued playing. Then it dropped down on all fours, and drew nearer until it reached my foot. Here it hesitated a moment, and looked up at me, or rather at the guitar, eagerly. I sat perfectly still, and made the best music I could produce.

Slowly, very slowly, it climbed up, clinging to my trousers leg. When it had reached my knee it once more sat erect, staring straight ahead. It did not appear to see me at all. I stopped playing for a moment, and it seemed uneasy and half dazed, but did not offer to escape until I finally touched it with my hand. Then it ran away, though with evident reluc

to its den near the fireplace.

The next evening I came prepared with food; but when it crept out again, as it did almost as soon as I began playing, it only nibbled a little at the cheese, and dropped it a moment later to listen. I decided that it was the musical genius of some family of mice, and that food to it was of less importance than the enjoyment of tune and harmony. So far as I know, no other member of its family ever interested itself in my playing. Perhaps the others even deserted the fireplace and left my little friend alone.

As time passed I grew very fond of this tiny mouse. Sometimes during the day I pushed bits of bread and cheese into its den, and in time it became very tame, and would come out and act in so many cunning ways that I passed many delightful hours in its society. Once I placed it under a glass tumbler, with a

I fear the fact of its becoming so adven

turous

brought it at last to a tragic end. One evening when I began playing it failed to ap

pear. I played over the

things it had seemed to like best, softly, at first, and then louder, thinking that it might be in some remote part of the wall and out of hearing. Still it did not come, though I played over and over all the pieces I knew, sometimes kneeling down and striking the strings close to the entrance of its little house, while I waited eagerly for its appearance. Finally I went to bed discouraged.

Early the next morning I played again in front of its dwelling, but it did not appear. At breakfast I mentioned the matter to my mother. She was silent for a few moments; then she said:

"If your room door was open yesterday, I am afraid you will not see your little friend any more. I saw 'Pug' coming downstairs during

the afternoon."

Pug was our largest gray cat. He was at that moment sleeping contentedly before the fire. I choked down my breakfast as best I could. Then I went to my room and played softly, and cried; for, after all, I was only a boy of perhaps sixteen.