Sleepy as it is now,
it was once noisy enough, and what made the noise was--rats. The place
was so infested with them as to be scarce worth living in. There wasn't
a barn or a corn-rick, a store-room or a cupboard, but they ate their
way into it. Not a cheese but they gnawed it hollow, not a sugar
puncheon but they cleared out. Why the very mead and beer in the barrels
was not safe from them. They'd gnaw a hole in the top of the tun, and
down would go one master rat's tail, and when he brought it up round
would crowd all the friends and cousins, and each would have a suck at
the tail.
Had they stopped here it might have been borne. But the squeaking and
shrieking, the hurrying and scurrying, so that you could neither hear
yourself speak nor get a wink of good honest sleep the live-long night!
Not to mention that, Mamma must needs sit up, and keep watch and ward
over baby's cradle, or there'd have been a big ugly rat running across
the poor little fellow's face, and doing who knows what mischief.
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