"Excellent!" said Bartimæus. "I can't see who I am talking to--this awful glare!--but it will pass--and meanwhile I can guess at you. You are a mouse; a small mouse, with sharp-pointed toes, a blunted tail, and a warm-orange coat." "How did you know that?" said the Harvest Mouse. "I heard you, and I felt you, and I smelt you," said Bartimæus. "You ran up just before I put my nose out. I heard your tail flick after you. I heard the leaves crack underneath your feet. I felt and smelt your colour. If you lived underground like me, you'd notice things." "Give me the sunshine," said the Harvest Mouse (its beauty doubled on her coat). "If you could see what I can see you'd go back home." [Illustration] "How's that?" said Bartimæus. "It's near the fence," the Harvest Mouse replied, "you'd better run and look at it." "It would take a lot to scare _me_," said Bartimæus, and puffed his little chest out. His chest was like the mouse's back, warm orange. "This will scare you," she said. "You strike from here towards the sun and you can't miss it. It throws a shadow at you." "I'm off," said Bartimæus, and straightway started burrowing. The Harvest Mouse stood up full length, and watched his ripple fading into distance. Then she dropped down to earth. "That was a quite nice Mole," she said, "it really _is_ a pity." A surface run is child's play to a Mole. He bores it almost at his surface pace. The roof springs ready-moulded from his back, and lengthens like a paid-out rope behind him. The fence was reached so suddenly that Bartimæus stubbed his nose against it. He bit and tore it, thinking it was root, then, finding it too hard for him--it was red teak--worked ten yards back and thrust his head and shoulders above ground. [Illustration: THE HARVEST MOUSE STOOD UP FULL LENGTH] The sun was low behind the fence. The shadow of it lengthened out towards him and, in between its clefts, crept dazzling gold-red rays. For full ten minutes Bartimæus' head swayed nodding side to side. Now and again he twitched one hand impatiently. He fought for a clear vision. Each time he faced the dazzling streams of light, his head fell worsted sideways, and minutes passed before he could look up again. At last their brilliance faded, and, somewhat to the right of him, a stunted bush took shape. The stem of it loomed dark in the fence shadow; the leaves were darker still--and there was something queer about the leaves. They were too large, too black, too solid. The breeze could hardly stir them, and, when they stirred, it was as though they spun. No more could be determined certainly. He left his run bent on a closer vision. It was no bush at all. It was a thick-stemmed alder-branch staked in the soil. The leaves were moles--moles like himself, or rather moles which had been like himself. For all were dead. Their bodies dangled pitifully, or, with poor shrivelled outstretched hands, spun as the breeze compelled them.