Verily, our subject now, as ever and anon, is that peculiar fellow, Yeoman Mouse. Is it not revealed by Zeus, by Hephaestus, by the Witch-toad, no less, that Yeoman Mouse hath the aspect, countenance, and mien of a simple yeoman of the realm? Doth those eyes of beady dullness, those whiskers spiraling as thunderstruck straw, those tiny ears a-quiver with an eager sense for flagons banging about, all portend a nature lifted so slightly out of the hideous muck of creation?
Certain it is. Why then vex us so with the vile presence of a filthy sluggard such as Yeoman Mouse? Indeed. And, truth be known, even such as the Almighty might be unequal to the mystery of this fine-tailed rodent’s triumph in the quest magnificent for mankind’s attention.
As we have tried ever to maintain, evidence for Mouse’s ascendant star is as scanty as the prospect of the Seven Wonders of the World inhabiting a swallow’s nest. We have: said rodent, of rotund aspect. Perhaps 4″ in any direction, with a sludge-gray hue (if by hue we mean the mixing of noxious remains of cabbages and serpents, which, we are convinced, cannot produce a color).
This cretinous substance we are enjoined to label: fur. And, if it matter to such as the fossiled insect world of antiquity, as to us it certainly matters not, then, we might mention the corrosively dirty white nature of the creature’s belly region. It is said by more than a legion of worthies, that this abject whiteness have all the light and freshness as the devil’s discarded pillow-casing.
I suppose the tail of this monstrosity bears mention. Ugly. There, kind and patient reader, I have aptly, nobly, withal, described that appendage. I hasten to apologise for uncharacteristic brevity in the matter. Very well, your scribe is paid in ducats handsome and commodious, thereat, let us further say: imagine a centipede a foot in distance, and the thickness a finger, and you have the sense of Yeoman Mouse’s tail.
Verily, you have sported your supper upon the wall at that loathsome description. Worry is but a fleeting savage, however, as I forbear to discuss Mouse’s garments and accoutrement. Except…Yea, a side-note, as may be allowed. These mottled and palsied woolen jerkin and pantaloons are, at first glance, said to resemble sentient things in their own right.
How so? Certain it is, oh trembling and succumbing-to-tidings-hideous reader, the following may indeed finish us all. Praise to evil sprites of nature, known as fleas, ticks, lice, etc., That it might be true to say that while the fabric of Yeoman Mouse’s habiliments is, in sooth, mere fabric, dessicated though it be, that, thanks to the myriad parasitical host amid these garments, the ensemble doth move about at a handsome pace.
Repelled, anon? Well, goodmen and goodwoman, lucky are we to comport ourselves with the genies styled as soap and water, not to mention that Saxon wizardry, known to the Romans as cologne. Is it just, then, to condemn a mere rodent for not meeting the measure of our more enlightened state? I say not. Decidedly not.
That said, then, we might even pity the poor creature; toiling in all climes for the matter of a bountiful turnip patch. Bequeathed to him, doubtless, by an ancient and civilized race of rodents, back to solid Druid stock. No doubt those stone-worshippers stunk of the devil as well. Betimes, such is life.
[As told to David Carniglia, at some date previous to 02/21/2020]