As a relief to the
dullness induced by bad weather, and disappointed hopes that something will
turn up to awaken the activity of the army, I am constantly amused by the merry
chirpings of myriads of "crickets on the hearth."* Now and then after
night-fall a little mouse, nearly white, suddenly appears amongst them, and
such a scampering, "such a gettin' up stairs I ever didn't see."
Mousey looks around for a little while as if surprised at their timidity, then sets
up a beautiful little song of his own, much resembling the trilling efforts of
the young canary. Yes, I have the reality of a singing mouse; and at all hours
of the night, either he or the crickets may be heard, in their cheering and now
familiar singings. A few nights ago I heard a sound as of some small animal
struggling in the water. I arose quickly, and on striking a light, found my
little musical companion struggling in the water-pail for dear life. He had
"leaped before he looked." I had him. I warmed him, and
dried him, and then I let him go. And why should I not have let him go? True, I
sometimes see him gliding away with stolen portions of my dearly-bought cheese.
Now and then the print of his little foot, just pulled out of Virginia mud, is
found on my butter roll. Once, as I was preparing for breakfast, I found the
little fellow taking his morning bath in my cream cup. But what are all these?
The cheese I can afford to divide with him. I cut the print of his little foot
from my butter roll, and enjoy what is left all the better. Though I lose the
cream from my coffee, I become more attached to the cup, because it has
afforded pleasure to my little friend. Have we any roses without thorns, good
people without failings, or friends without faults? When I examine the
catalogue of my friends, should I strike off every one who has a failing, I
fear I should have very few left. Go on, then, little mousey, this world was
intended alike for you and me. There is not a night but your little song more
than pays me for all your depredations of the day, and for all my interest in
and affections for you.
_______________
* My quarters are
now, an old farm house with one room, with an immense rough stone chimney, and
a flag-stone hearth.
SOURCE: Alfred L.
Castleman, The Army of the Potomac. Behind the Scenes. A Diary of
Unwritten History; From the Organization of the Army, by General George B.
McClellan, to the close of the Campaign in Virginia about the First Day
January, 1863, pp. 80-1
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