I have made an unpleasant discovery: there are rats in the house.

At night from my bed I have heard them scampering across the hills and

valleys of the front room, and my sleep has been a good deal disturbed

in consequence.

Oct. 19.—The landlady, I find, has a little boy with her, probably

her son’s child. In fine weather he plays in the alley, and draws a

wooden cart over the cobbles. One of the wheels is off, and it makes a

most distracting noise. After putting up with it as long as possible, I

found it was getting on my nerves, and I could not write. So I rang

the bell. Emily answered it.

“Emily, will you ask the little fellow to make less noise? It’s

impossible to work.”

The girl went downstairs, and soon afterwards the child was called

in by the kitchen door. I felt rather a brute for spoiling his play.

In a few minutes, however, the noise began again, and I felt that he

was the brute. He dragged the broken toy with a string over the stones

till the rattling noise jarred every nerve in my body. It became

unbearable, and I rang the bell a second time.

“That noise must be put a stop to!” I said to the girl, with

decision.

“Yes, sir,” she grinned, “I know; but one of the wheels is hoff.

The men in the stable offered to mend it for ‘im, but he wouldn’t let

them. He says he likes it that way.”

“I can’t help what he likes. The noise must stop. I can’t write.”

“Yes, sir; I’ll tell Mrs. Monson.”

The noise stopped for the day then.

Oct. 23.—Every day for the past week that cart has rattled over

the stones, till I have come to think of it as a huge carrier’s van

with four wheels and two horses; and every morning I have been obliged

to ring the bell and have it stopped. The last time Mrs. Monson herself

came up, and said she was sorry I had been annoyed; the sounds should

not occur again. With rare discursiveness she went on to ask if I was

comfortable, and how I liked the rooms. I replied cautiously. I

mentioned the rats. She said they were mice. I spoke of the draughts.