My week at the Petersons went by quickly. I enjoyed the company of Anna and the cheerful chatter of the children. Even Olga warmed up to me somewhat when the two of us were alone.
On Friday, Bill Laverly stopped by the schoolhouse, grinning his wide grin, and assured me that the teacherage was now mouse-proof and mouse-free.
I decided that I would move back on Saturday morning so that I could spend the day scrubbing and cleaning and putting the things back into my cupboard.
Bill offered to drive me over to the Petersons for my things. I was quick to assure him that I had taken very little with me and would have no problem carrying it home. I thanked him for his kindness and returned to my classroom.
Moving back home posed no difficulty. Olga and Else came with me, insisting on helping me carry my belongings. After they had left, I changed into an old skirt and shirtwaist and set to work with hot, soapy water. It gave me great satisfaction to see gleaming clean cupboards restored to their proper order.
I was tired at day’s end but deeply pleased with my labors. It was good to be home and have my little house all to myself.
———
The area harvest was nearing completion. Some of the farmers were already finished. The older boys had now come back to the classroom, making my days more difficult. They longed to be adults and yet they did not have the skills of even the youngest children in the room. My heart ached for them, but they did try my patience to the limit. Their attempts to flirt annoyed me, and at times I had to suppress a strong desire to express my displeasure. I knew that they were immature and unsure of themselves, so I tried very hard never to embarrass or humiliate them. But I did wish that they wouldn’t act so silly.
We were all busily involved in planning for the coming box social and penny circus. Assignments had been given to the students, and they were working hard to prepare for the big event. The parents were wonderful in their support. Almost daily, some note of encouragement or offer of help was brought to school by a student. I was pleased and thankful for the community backing.
On the home front, I felt rather smug: There had been no evidence whatever of mice in my kitchen. The tin patches in my cupboard and around the walls seemed to have done the trick. I did not know—nor ask—how the men had taken care of the unwelcome inhabitants. I was simply glad that they had been removed.
I was weary by Friday night. The older boys had been particularly trying, and the week had been filled with many extra duties for the upcoming fund-raiser. After I had cleared away my supper dishes, I retired to my large chair (the lumps were now fitting nicely around me) with a cup of tea and a book. I slipped off my shoes and put my feet up on my footstool. How my mother would have gasped to see her daughter sitting in such an unladylike position, but it felt so good. I sighed contentedly, sipped hot tea and opened my book.
A tiny movement near the stove caught my eye. The bit of shadow turned into a live thing—a tiny mouse poked out his head. His black, shiny eyes sought out any danger and his nose twitched sensitively. My first angry impulse was to pick up my shoe and throw it at him, but I froze where I was. Venturing out a little farther, he sat up and began to clean himself, rubbing his tiny moistened paws over his head, his back and his chest. He did look comical. He also looked small and helpless and hungry. I had never actually seen one of my house guests before—alive, that is. He IS rather cute, I reasoned, though there had been nothing much to commend them when they were dead.
I must have stirred slightly, for he darted back under the stove and was lost in the shadows.
He appeared a few more times that evening, each time carefully grooming himself. I wondered if this were just an attempt to keep himself busy and his thoughts off his empty tummy.
Before I went to bed, I scattered a few crumbs by the leg of the stove. I told myself that I was doing it to provide what he needed so he wouldn’t have to climb into my cupboard looking for it. In the morning the crumbs were gone.
In the next few days, very busy days, I saw the small mouse on several occasions. I named him Napoleon because he was so tiny, yet so bold. Each night I put a small amount of food out for him, each time reasoning that if he had food easily accessible he wouldn’t snoop in my cupboards for it.
I found myself actually watching for him. He was entertaining, and I even had the ridiculous thought that I no longer bore the loneliness of living by myself.
During school on Friday, a knock on the classroom door drew my attention. I excused myself and went to answer it. Bill Laverly had been to town and picked up some articles that I had requested for the penny circus. I told him to set them inside the door of the teacherage, then went back to my class, anxious for the school hours to end so that I could get busy on my projects.
Bill was soon back at the classroom door.
“Ma’am,” he said, “there was another mouse in yer place there. Don’t know how we ever missed ’im.”
At the sight of my chalk-white face he hurried on, “It’s okay, ma’am—I killed ’im.”
My gratitude expected, I mumbled something that I hoped made sense, and Bill left, his eternal grin firmly in place.
It was a few moments before I could go back to my class. I knew that it was right—that it was better—that it was what I should have wanted. But I’d miss Napoleon. He had been so little, and so clever—and so cute.