There appears to be an explosion in the mouse populations this fall. From within our cold storage room I have carried out 10 wee carcasses in the past week and a bit.
Our neighbours a few concession lines away report the same thing, an intrusion of mice that far outnumbers previous years. And relatives of mine had their furnace malfunctioning for several weeks until it was discovered that a mouse had entered a vent and become entangled in a fan, thus shutting down the heating system.
All of our mice species are common enough, including deer mice and white-footed mice, woodland and meadow jumping mice, or house mice. Often lumped in as ‘field mice’ are the more properly labelled meadow voles.
Despite their commonality (or because of it) there have been a few that have gained prominent notice among humans: e.g. Mickey, Minnie, and Mighty. Here is the story of another, albeit unnamed, one:
It happened on a cool autumn day about 240 years ago, as a young man worked the fields on his father's farm. Wrapped in woolen clothes, he easily worked up a sweat as the single-furrow plow was man-handled along behind the pulling ox.
In that part of Scotland, everyone worked the land, whether they owned it or not (usually 'not') as the soil had to be prepared and made ready for next spring's planting.
Young Robert, the plowman of whom I speak, endured the poverty that marked his family yet did so with good humour despite constant bouts with illness. This young man had a talent for listening to others, observing the ways of nature, and of writing poetry.
And so, on this particular day, which was no more noticeable than any of the other autumn days, he walked behind the ox, his eyes scanning the ground for any rocks or roots that may interfere with the plow's slicing blade. As he neared a thick tuft of grasses, a mouse suddenly ran from this cover and dashed away into other parts of the field.
To most anyone, this event was commonplace and not noteworthy, just a miniscule aspect of the chore of turning the sod, an annual and tediously boring job. But the image stayed in young Burns' mind, and perhaps that night by flickering candle or coal-oil lamp he began penning a new poem, titling it simply, "To A Mouse."
"Wee, sleekit, cow'rin' beastie; Oh, 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!"
The words may be a tad confusing, yet the message is clear: Robert is beseeching the panic struck mouse to calm down, that he's not going to give chase and whollop it with a stick. His second stanza addresses the incident and expands on the implications of the event:
"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."
Although the candle may be burning low and the hour is late, Robbie writes several more stanzas, each building upon the one before and, in the second last cluster of his thoughts, he pens what will eventually become the oft recited (and generally misquoted) words for generations to come:
"But Mousie, thou art no thy lane [not alone] in proving foresight may be in vain; The best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft a-gley, an' leave us nought but grief an' pain for promised joy."
‘Gang aft a-gley?’ Go astray, or amiss. Ah, how true at times, when well laid plans with their intrinsic hopes and promises are dashed apart by some unforeseen disaster, such as a plowshare chopping your snug nest into pieces.
The lifestyle that Robert Burns endured had begun to creep into his poem, the profound thoughts coming from that earlier in the day brief sighting of a mouse running from cover. How he identified with that mouse, a fellow mortal whose plans and hopes were crushed yet again.
"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!"
With blotter paper he dries the ink, sets the parchment paper aside, and retires to his straw-filled bed, tired, stiff and sore from his day's work, in need of the rest required to ready himself for yet another day of toil. Good night Robbie, sleep well.
And outside, in the unplowed section of the half-plowed field, by the muted light of the autumn moon, a mouse scrambles to collect dry grasses and thus begins to rebuild its home.
