PIPSQUEAK!

.. There's a mouse in the house

ACTUALLY this "wee, sleekit, cowran, tim'rous beastie" * would have seen me running for cover and shrieking like a boy soprano if I'd spotted him in a pasta jar in my flat in Soho.

 However, three years of living in the countryside has toughened me up when confronted with such furry, little creatures ... and after an initial start, I did afford myself a little chuckle before releasing him into a nearby wood pile.

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 Although how he got inside the birdseed bin is beyond me since the lid is usually weighted down with a log to stop my feathered friends from trying to sneak a free meal.

 However, in future, I will take a good look inside the bin before plunging my hands downwards to grab the seed. Quite how I would've reacted if I'd physically grabbed the mouse, I couldn't say and nor do I want to put it to the test.

 Hubby was amused but I'm not so sure how he would have reacted since a big spider made an appearance from underneath the TV last month and he leapt from the sofa like a scalded cat.

 * In honour of the great Bard of Scotland below is Robbie Burns masterpiece poem To A Mouse which he wrote, apparently, after turning his plough, accidentally, through a nest of mice while he was farming some land.

 

Wee, sleekit, cowran, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request:
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast,
An' weary Winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald.
To thole the Winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!