The door was closed, so that they could not get out. I was armed
with a fire shovel, or something of that sort, and I fought, as I
thought at the time, with a good deal of bravery and some skill. But the
rats got the better of me. They won the victory. They would jump upon a
barrel, and from that upon a shelf, and then down they would fly into my
face, ready to gripe me with their teeth. I was glad to beat a retreat
soon, I assure you.
They are a shrewd set of fellows, these rats. Some years ago, the cellar
of the house in which I resided was greatly infested with them. They
devoured potatoes, apples, cabbages, and whatever came in their way; for
they are not very particular about their diet, you know. Well, we set a
trap for them. It was a flat stone set up on one end, with a figure
four. We scattered corn all about the trap, and placed a few barrels on
the end of the spindle under the stone. The first night these midnight
robbers ate up all the corn around the trap, but did not touch a morsel
under it. This they repeated several nights in succession; and all at
once, there was not the trace of a rat to be found in the cellar. They
no doubt held a council (rats are accustomed to hold councils, it would
seem; they once held a council to deliberate upon the best mode of
protection against their enemy, the cat, and concluded to put a bell on
her ladyship--so the fable says)--they held a council, as I said before,
and came to the unanimous conclusion that those quarters were no longer
safe.
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