Sad change, indeed, but we occasionally got some fun out of
the nipping, shivery work from hungry prairie chickens, and squirrels
and mice that came about us.
The piles of corn were often left in the field several days, and while
loading them into the wagon we usually found field mice in
them,--big, blunt-nosed, strong-scented fellows that we were taught to
kill just because they nibbled a few grains of corn. I used to hold
one while it was still warm, up to Nob's nose for the fun of seeing
her make faces and snort at the smell of it; and I would say: "Here,
Nob," as if offering her a lump of sugar. One day I offered her an
extra fine, fat, plump specimen, something like a little woodchuck, or
muskrat, and to my astonishment, after smelling it curiously and
doubtfully, as if wondering what the gift might be, and rubbing it
back and forth in the palm of my hand with her upper lip, she
deliberately took it into her mouth, crunched and munched and chewed
it fine and swallowed it, bones, teeth, head, tail, everything. Not a
single hair of that mouse was wasted.
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