"Six times have I been beaten in battle," said Bruce. "I know how to
pity that poor spider."
But the spider was not discouraged. A seventh time she flung her thread,
and this time she succeeded in fastening it to the beam.
Bruce sprang to his feet. "I will try once more," he said, and went
forth to victory. Since that day, the story goes, no member of the
family of Bruce will injure a spider.
THE WOODMOUSE.
Do you know the little woodmouse,
That pretty little thing,
That sits among the forest leaves,
Or by the forest spring?
Its fur is red like the chestnut,
And it is small and slim,
It leads a life most innocent,
Within the forest dim.
It makes a bed of the soft, dry moss,
In a hole that's 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 it waketh to its summer life,
When nightingales are singing.
MARY HOWITT.
A MOUSE'S STORY.
Men call me a thief. I wonder if they are right. I used to live in the
fields, and I found nuts and acorns in the woods for my little family.
Then a man came. He dug up my field and planted his own crops.
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