Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie

Opened up my bin of layers pellets this morning to find this mouse and her friend in there. They will have had to do some acrobatics and breathing in to climb and then squeeze through the lid. Impressive determination I would say. I have moved the bin so that is no longer near climbing articles! Husband helped me capture the two of them and we released them in the yard and one of them climbed straight up a tree at least 12 ft up it. I have never seen them climb trees before and it was so fast I couldn't even photograph it! We don't have poison out on the farm as its not good or safe for anything. We have a couple of feral cats who frequent the shed and plenty of wild predators for them.

This morning after the mice excitement husband and I went to the farm where we manage the livestock to check the young cattle that are shut away from the bull and bulling cows. The owner there had been round twice and counted them and always had one missing so he was concerned that something untoward may have happened to it. We took a few of the young dogs with us so they can help sniff out the cattle. We got a lift out in the polaris buggy to the area of ground and then walked off in opposite directions counting cows as we went. Thankfully we found them all and they were all very happy. Amazing how hard it is to find 30 cattle on the hill!

17c 8mph NE sunshine until 1pm then overcast with the wind beginning to pick up.

"To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough" (Scots: "Tae a Moose") is a Scots poem written by Robert Burns in 1785

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
An' fellow mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't.

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's win's ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld.

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou are blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
 

This poem came to mind today luckily no nests were destroyed in the making! Just some freedom for the fat and probably thirsty little mice!