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