The Wood-Mouse Poem by Mary Botham Howitt

D' ye know the little Wood-Mouse,
That pretty little thing,
That sits among the forest leaves,
Beside the forest spring?

Its fur is red as the red chestnut,
And it is small and slim;
It leads a life most innocent
Within the forest dim.

'T is a timid, gentle creature,
And seldom comes in sight;
It has a long and wiry tail,
And eyes both black and bright.

It makes its nest of soft, dry moss,
In a hole so deep and strong ;
And there it sleeps secure and warm,
The dreary winter long.

And though it keeps no calendar,
It knows when flowers are springing;
And waketh to its summer life
When Nightingales are singing.

Upon the boughs the Squirrel sits,
The Wood-Mouse plays below;
And plenty of food it finds itself
Where the Beech and Chestnut grow.

In the Hedge-Sparrow's nest he sits
When its Summer brood is fled,
And picks the berries from the bough
Of the Hawthorn over-head.

I saw a little Wood-Mouse once,
Like Oberon in his hall,
With the green, green moss beneath his feet,
Sit under a Mushroom tall.

I saw him sit and his dinner eat,
All under the forest tree;
His dinner of Chestnut ripe and red,
And he ate it heartily.

I wish you could have seen him there;
It did my spirit good,
To see the small thing God had made
Thus eating in the wood.

I saw that He regardeth them --
Those creatures weak and small;
Their table in the wild is spread,
By Him who cares for all!