White rats and mice, for instance; they make delightful pets. Thomas Bailey Aldrich says that he--no--that little Tom Bailey had white mice, and that Miss Abigail couldn’t bear them. It was lucky the thought never occurred to him of taming the common brown rats, or Miss Abigail would have had convulsions. Anything more uncanny, more utterly at variance with civilization, it would be hard to imagine. To see them, reconnoitering in cellar or back yard, so homely, fierce and shrewd, so seemingly untamable, full of device as the Old Serpent, and, like him, inspired with a wicked intelligence, is to feel half doubtful of their right to exist. And yet they can be tamed, and often have shown genuine affection for their tamers. They are fond of music, too--a trait of which the Pied Piper took advantage, to coax them out of Hamelin Town. In quite another way they were persuaded to leave Stilf--an exodus quite as strange as that from Hamelin, although less widely known, through lack of a Browning to put it in rhyme. The story is this: In 1519, in Tyrol (a time and place very credulous towards magic), lived a well-to-do peasant called Simon Fluss--that is, he formerly was well-to-do. Now, his prosperity had received a check--his crops were destroyed by field-rats. They ate the seeds, the young stems, the developed grain, until the farmer found himself face to face with ruin, and was fairly badgered into self-defense. Not, however, by traps or terriers did he uphold his rights; no, he brought the matter into a court of law. Notice was served duly, and a time appointed for hearing the case. Advocates were chosen for each side, witnesses were examined, and finally--all legal forms having been observed--judgment was passed to this effect: “Those noxious animals called field-rats, must, within two weeks, depart, and forever remain far aloof from the fields and meadows of Stilf.” Those who, from extreme youth or illness, were unable to travel so soon, had another two weeks allowed them. Where the rats went to, no one knows. The most remarkable friend of rats on record, is Susanna, Countess of Eglintoune, who died more than a hundred years ago, at the great age of ninety-one. She had a brilliant youth; natural distinction, beauty and wit combined to make her the brightest star in the society where she moved. In old age, still beautiful and witty, she tried the effect of her charms on rats, as before on human beings, and with equal success. A sliding panel was constructed in the oak wainscot of her dining-room; and the great feature of the day was when, at a certain stage of the dinner, she would first tap loudly on the panel, then open it. Obedient to the signal, a dozen fat, comfortable rats would emerge, and join her at table. After a bountiful meal of such things as are dear to rats, the tap would be repeated, the panel opened, and back would go her long-tailed guests, even as they had come, with perfect decorum.