Where the acorn tumbles down, Where the ash tree sheds its berry, With your fur so soft and brown, With your eye so round and merry, Scarcely moving the long grass, Fieldmouse, I can see you pass. Little thing, in what dark den, Lie you all the winter sleeping? Till warm weather comes again, Then once more I see you peeping Round about the tall tree roots, Nibbling at their fallen fruits. Fieldmouse, fieldmouse, do not go, Where the farmer stacks his treasure, Find the nut that falls below, Eat […]