He catches them by a wonderful arrangement in his mouth, which is made of what we call whalebone. It is something like the gratings across drain-pipes, which let the water through but stop everything else, and he can lift it up or drop it down as he pleases. When he is hungry, he takes a huge mouthful of sea-water and lets it out again through this whalebone grating. All the small slug-like things which are swimming in the water are trapped, and, when he has got most of the water out of his mouth, he swallows them. [Illustration: THE PYGMY SHREWMOUSE His fur has a beautiful purple bloom, like that on a yellow plum; and is so fine that it often shows mother-of-pearl colours] I don't think that the Whale can have much trouble about getting his dinner; all he has to do is to find the right piece of sea and then open his mouth; but the Pygmy, I think, has to work very hard, as he has to catch everything separately, and he is such a delicate little creature that he is seldom about unless the weather is warm and fine. [Illustration: THIS IS HOW THE PYGMY COILS HIMSELF UP TO SLEEP] Then he has to make up for the hungry time when bad weather has kept him in his hole. In the autumn one often finds dead shrewmice lying on the paths. Nobody quite knows why they die in the autumn, but I think it is because only a few of them, if any, are strong enough to stand cold and wet and hunger all at once. The rest die just like the leaves die. You must not think a dead Shrewmouse is like a live one to look at, for he is quite different. When dead, the poor little beastie lies stretched out straight, but when he is alive he is all bunched up together and runs about like a little fur ball on legs. IN WEASEL WOOD (LAMMAS DAY) [Illustration] Again the Fox Cub was puzzled. His muzzle wrinkled dubiously, his ears twitched and puckered, he barked (a new accomplishment), he mewed (a newer habit still), and then, since sound proved futile, he sank from his hindquarters forward slowly, grounded his nose between his paws and stared. This was the queerest happening of all. Queerer than the briar's queer flutter; and the shower of pink petals from it; and the glint of savage little eyes half-way up it; and the savage little chestnut face behind them. Queerer than the scream from the sky; and the rotten elm-branch dancing bough to bough; and cannoning against the trunk; and shattering at his feet. Queerer than the swish through the nettlebed--swish of a purple snaking shadow, which might have been mere bird, had the trail of it been clumsier, or its ripple more fretful. [Illustration: AGAIN THE FOX CUB WAS PUZZLED] Birds he had known since teething. Mother had brought them often; Father less often--scraggy, thin-necked, towsled things, yet mostly of fine flavour; finer than rabbits certainly (except quite baby rabbits); finer, too, than frogs; or lizards; or mice; or snails; or any of the myriad crawl-by-nights on which young teeth gain confidence.