Note on the Mortality of the Common Shrew. "Both our species of Sorex seem to feed by preference on insects and worms; and thus, like the mole, their flesh is rank and offensive to most creatures, which reject them as food. The common shrew, in spring and summer, is ordinarily in motion even during the day, from sexual attachment, which occasions the destruction of numbers by cats, and other prowling animals; and thus we find them strewed in our paths, by gateways, and in our garden walks, dropped by these animals in their progress. It was once thought that some periodical disease occasioned this mortality of the species; but I think we may now conclude that violence alone is the cause of their destruction in these instances. The bite of this creature was considered by the ancients as peculiarly noxious, even to horses and large cattle, and variety of the most extraordinary remedies for the wound, and preventives against it, are mentioned by Pliny and others. The prejudices of antiquity, long as they usually are in keeping possession of the mind, have not been remembered by us; and we only know the hardy shrew now as a perfectly harmless animal, though we still retain a name for it expressive of something malignant and spiteful."—Knapp's 'Journal of a Naturalist,' p. 145.
Note on a Singing Mouse. Our fathers had talking birds out of number—parrots, cockatoos, ravens, magpies, jackdaws, nightingales, bullfinches and canaries; they were favoured with exhibitions of highly accomplished pigs, dogs, elephants, monkeys and bears: but we believe a singing mouse is a rarity reserved to comfort the present generation of men. Having received a card of invitation, we were not long in availing ourselves of so distinguished a privilege; and whatever doubts we might previously have entertained, they at once vanished when we found ourselves face to face with the murine Orpheus. His song is very subdued, occasionally almost inaudible, but the notes are sweet, and follow in rapid succession like those of a very voluble canary; in fact, if the mouth of a canary were carefully closed, and the bird, in revenge, were to turn ventriloquist, and sing in the very centre of his stomach, we should have just that subdued melody in which the mouse seems to delight. The gift appears perfectly natural, and exercised solely for the pleasure of its possessor.
The history of the mouse is on this wise. A lady residing at No. 24, Red Cross Square, after retiring to her chamber for the night, heard strains of delicious music, now swelling on the ear, and anon dying away as in the recesses of a closet. Could it be the ghost of a departed canary bird, revisiting the scenes of his captivity? Could it be a fetch with mellifluous voice, come to summon her from this wearisome world? Could it be an enamoured and gallant Lothario, serenading some coy beauty of the Square with a bird-organ? Ah; no! Could it be a living bird? The cat was suggested as a remedy. Grimalkin was summoned to catch or scare away the nocturnal melodist. It was to no purpose; the cat's attention was absorbed by the mice, and the room was filled with music as before. The cat was dismissed and traps were set. A mouse was caught—a fine handsome fellow, and a perfect patriarch in magnitude and years. He was about to be hurried to execution, when lo! he burst forth into song. The mysterious music was explained at once. The life of the captive was spared, and he daily and hourly pours forth his gentle song for the amusement of all who incline to visit him; and we trust that not one of our readers who has the opportunity will omit to do so. We assure them that he is a zoological curiosity, quite worthy of examination. His address is still at 24, Red Cross Square.—Ed.
