THE TAIL OF A MOUSE.

NCE upon a time a wee Mouse crept from
() his hole, and, crossing the room, suddenly
appeared upon my writing table. I like
mice, and he may have known it. Anyway, there
he sat, winking his beady little eyes roguishly at
me. I knew that mice often have very thrilling
experiences, forcing their way without invitation or
encouragement into the houses of the rich and
poor alike, and going from attic to cellar, from
boudoir to butler’s pantry, and I thought, “ Now,
perhaps this little fellow will tell me the story of
his life, that I may again tell it to my children.”
So I said, very politely :

“Most beautiful Mouse, will you not kindly tell

me the tale of your life?”

“Well,” said the Mouse, very indignantly, “ if
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