Summary

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

Up above, in the open air, they are to be seen in swarms sharing our watchfulness. This gun-shaken valley is honeycombed with their little round funk-holes, into which they flash at any sudden noise. It is merely going downstairs where we are all at home.
The social instincts of the rat are less highly developed. His visible visits to the mess are rarer, but we overhear his conversation in his tunnels that open on our shelves, the patter of his pink feet across the canvas overhead, and the muscular squirming of his body in some tight place about the sandbag wainscot.
Source: Gutenberg

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

From the earth walls of the sanctuary where this small tribute is written mice look down upon our table with its newspaper cover, diffidently waiting for us to finish our meal and permit them to dine. We regard them as shy visitors—though are we not billeted on them?—not as sneaking thieves, and by the light of our candles perceive how sleek, bright-eyed, neat-handed and agile they are. In one dug-out I know a certain mouse who will drop on your shoulder and sit there a while in the friendliest manner, trying in his tiny modest way to play the host.
Source: Gutenberg

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

Glory apart, I could think for a long time without hitting on anywhere beastlier to be except perhaps just the other side of a breastwork thirty yards off where the Bosch has been dropping heavy crumps in threes with monotonous regularity since an indecent hour this morning. I have been partly asleep, partly waiting for one to drop thirty yards short. There is no one to talk to except a chaffinch, who thinks of nothing but his appearance.
Source: Gutenberg

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