THE SAD STORY OF THE MOUSE.

BY KATHARINE PYLE.

One winter, when mamma was ill, And scarce could move at all, There used to come a little mouse From out the bedroom wall. Mamma would scatter crumbs for it; 'Twas company, she said; She liked to see it run about While she was there in bed. And when mamma was well again, The mouse would still come out, And nose around in search of food, And scamper all about. At last one day—oh dear! oh dear!— A naughty boy was I; I set a trap to catch that mouse; I'm sure I don't know why. I'd hardly closed the cupboard door Before the thing went, Snap! I was afraid to go and look At what was in the trap. At last I looked; the mouse was there! I carried it away; I never told a soul of it; I could not play all day. And after that mamma would say, "Why, where's our little mouse? It must have found some other place I think, about the house." But, oh, I'd give my bat and ball, My kite and jackknife too, To see that mouse run round again The way it used to do.