D' ye know the little Wood-Mouse, That pretty little thing,That sits among the forest leaves, Beside the forest spring?
Its fur is red as the red chestnut, And it is small and slim;It leads a life most innocent Within the forest dim.
'T is a timid, gentle creature, And seldom comes in sight;It has a long and wiry tail, And eyes both black and bright.
It makes its nest of soft, dry moss, In a hole so deep and strong ;And there it sleeps secure and warm, The dreary winter long.
And though it keeps no calendar, It knows when flowers are springing;And waketh to its summer life When Nightingales are singing.
Upon the boughs the Squirrel sits, The Wood-Mouse plays below;And plenty of food it finds itself Where the Beech and Chestnut grow.
In the Hedge-Sparrow's nest he sits When its Summer brood is fled,And picks the berries from the bough Of the Hawthorn over-head.
I saw a little Wood-Mouse once, Like Oberon in his hall,With the green, green moss beneath his feet, Sit under a Mushroom tall.
I saw him sit and his dinner eat, All under the forest tree;His dinner of Chestnut ripe and red, And he ate it heartily.
I wish you could have seen him there; It did my spirit good,To see the small thing God had made Thus eating in the wood.
I saw that He regardeth them -- Those creatures weak and small;Their table in the wild is spread, By Him who cares for all!
