And pray what is a Croquenoix, sir?

I shake my head oracularly. My renewed
acquaintance with the creatures was thus:—
Riding in a public carriole one day, there sat
by my side an English schoolboy in full
uniform. His father and his schoolmaster were
on the seat in front. Papa had escaped from
his counting-room, and manifested a strong
propensity to drive. I told him he had better
not; because, although our horse was as quiet
as a three-legged stool, arid I had no doubt
he piloted his own four-wheel with perfect
safety all the way from the City to Stoke
Newington, yet here the rule of the road
differed from that at home; the French go
to the right, when we turn to the left; so
he would be sure to pitch into the opposition
carriole, or get us shoved over the bank into
the canal, by one of those heavy-laden things
with long strong shafts, a couple of high
wheels, a board or two, and a rope or two,
which it is impossible for Englishmen to call
"a waggon."

"You are going out a-fishing with your
papa to-day?" I asked of the lad, "and you
have got your worms ready in that little
tin box, with holes in the lid, have you
not?"

"I'm going for a visit to England," he
answered in reply. ''Father happened to
give me the box, so I thought of carrying in
it some Croquenoix for sister at home. The
boys at our school have lots of Croquenoix;
Groper has nine of his own catching, and
Matcher breeds them. Some boys, however,
keep nothing but birds; others like slow-
worms the best of all dumb animals. Tom
Byles talks of taking up the toad and frog
fancy. Sam Green and I used to go partners,
but we have dissolved; he has all the snakes
and lizards, and I agreed to take the Croquenoix.
Look, sir, they are fast asleep."

I peeped in cautiously; the little things
were each snugged up and rolled into a ball,
with a long fine silky tail wrapped over their
nose, like a miniature boa; they were clad in
soft light-fawn-coloured fur, with long whiskers,
or "smellers," starting from their muzzle.
They really were a very pretty, brotherly,
and even an elegant present.

"Well, but what's the use of them, my
dear? What do they do? " inquired Papa
with a most utilitarian air.

"They sleep," I interrupted, instantly
volunteering to come forward as the champion
of the Croquenoix. "They sleep to
perfection; and that, I believe, is their principal
accomplishment."

"Sleep! I don't see much cleverness in
that!"

"I beg your pardon, sir; I see a great
deal. Blessed (as Sancho Panza says) be
the man who invented sleep. It is the
best way of keeping troublesome people
quiet. I wish some folks would sleep twenty-
three hours and three quarters out of every
twenty-four; and so would you, if you were
in my place. In the house where I am
lodging, sir, there lives on the same floor a
widow lady, who, as the French say, is very
lively. Lively! She came over the water
on purpose to drink the bottled beer here,
which is celebrated for going off like a fire-
engine, and which has a pinch of detonating
powder dropped into every flask before it is
corked. According to her, beer which does
not burst the bottles, is flat, and not worth
drinking. Lively, sir! I don't wonder she
was a widow; fifty husbands could not have
stood her, with her three daughters and her
female friend. They, sir, may take pattern
by the Croquenoix with considerable comfort
and advantage to their neighbours. The last
thunder storm,—that terrific one at night—
I was prevented from hearing the magnificent
bass roulades of aerial music, because, while
the widow was scolding with lungs of brass
—that's how she killed her husband, sir—
one daughter amused herself with slamming
the doors; another convulsed the piano with
a grand finale (which never was a finale); the
child screamed with the force of injured
indignation at not being allowed to run out to
play in the puddles; and the friend kept
running upstairs and downstairs, like a coach-
horse shod with pattens of lead. So I gave
up all chance of hearing the thunder, and
undressed myself and went to sleep. Pray
don't utter a word against the Croquenoix,
sir; because, next to Rip Van Winkle, and
the famous seven, they are perhaps the very
best sleepers in the world. As soon as I get
back again, I shall set myself up with a pair or
two."

The resolution was kept, and the creatures
have afforded us no little amusement from
that very day to this. We were then living
on the outskirts of a rather extensive forest
in the North of France. Some day I must
take you for a ramble and a quiet pic-nic
there, when the orchises are in bloom, and
the wild strawberries begin to ripen.
Croquenoix, or "crack-walnut," is the local name
of a little quadruped which inhabits it. The
word itself is indeclinable, retaining the same
form in the plural as in the singular; its
derivation is not quite clear, as there are no
noix, or walnuts, in the forest, though noisettes
or hazel-nuts abound. Muscardin is the name
which Buffon gives to the species, justly
describing it as "the least ugly of all the rats."
He thinks that it does not exist in Great
Britain; while Ray, who had seen something
of the kind, says that the little sleeping rat
which is found in England is not red-haired on
the back, like that of Italy, and that therefore
it may be a different animal. There is no
difference between the French and the Italian
species, and Aldrovandi has accurately
determined it; but that laborious author also
adds that there are two species in Italy—the
one rare, having a musky odour; the other,
more common, without any scent; and that
at Bologna both are called Muscardini, on