From Weeding the Flower-patch
By Flora Klickmann.

Taking away some thick clumps of ivy, closely matted stalks and leaves, with tall ferns beside the stone in front of the ivy, I came upon an oval ball, about the size of a turkey’s egg. It was made of dried grasses and straw, and was hidden away in a mass of ivy, and partly supported on a little branch of a young hawthorn that was growing close to the rock. The oval ball was beautifully made, the dry stalks of grasses were evenly arranged from the somewhat rounded base to a pointed top. Very carefully I prised apart a few of the stalks that met together at the top. Inside, fast asleep was a little grey dormouse, the happy little creature whose conscious life is just one long summer. The sight of the dea little mouse gave me a real thrill. One may read volumes about some attractive wildling; see it photographed, painted, diagrammed, filmed; but nothing approaches the pleasure it gives one actually to hold the living morsel in the hand, especially if – as in this case – the little creature is not frightened.

It seemed so amazing to me that it should have put itself to bed and then to sleep, with no anxiety for the future, no one to share its loneliness, no one to watch over it during its long night of sleep, save the Father who cares for us all, and forgets none.

I have found many unexpected treasures in my plot of land. Here was one more to add to the list.

Drawing the stalks together again, very gently, so as not to disturb it, I replaced it as well as I could where I had found it, putting a piece of wire netting over the top of the clump of green stuff – a sign understood by all weeders and gardeners that there is something underneath which must not be disturbed. When the tiny sleeper awakes from his long siesta, he can escape as he wishes, by way of the sides, or downwards. You may trust any member of that family to know how to slip away to safety. But neither owl not any prowling animal would find it easy to get him if they started on the sharp thorns and spines of the hawthorn around and below him.

What completely puzzled me was the way he had wrapped himself up in his winter blanket. Did he begin with himself inside? If so, how did he manage to arrange the outer coverings? If he made the outside shell first of all, how did he get himself and the rest of the materials inside and then shut the door after him?

Mentioning the matter to a friend who is a keen naturist, she told me she had once been so fortunate as to see a dormouse put himself to bed.

She had chanced to come upon a collection of lengths of grass stalks, laid out in an orderly manner on a bit of flat surface. Waiting motionless she soon saw the tiny creature arrive with some more grasses to add to his hoard. When he considered he had enough, he spread out the stalks evenly and all lying the same way, with his front teeth.

When quite satisfied with everything, he lay down on his side, and, with the uppermost feet, caught hold of a clutch of stalks, rolled himself over with these under him; caught hold of more stalks and grass with the other two feet. In this way rolled over and over, till he had entirely covered himself and used up all his material. Then when securely inside, he arranged it to his satisfaction, brought the ends together so as nearly to close the top and bottom, only the merest pinhole left, perhaps for air.
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snuggle doon,
Trinkie