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grasses. There are many varieties. There are some amazing ornamental grasses, for example. And on a golf green, the quality of the grass is very important. A golfer..."
    No one was paying any attention to Ignatious. He talked on and on, but they had reached the little cemetery now and all of the church mice had spread out. They rushed around, looking for the best places to create their nests. Here and there they stopped to nibble on a flower or two. But Hildegarde was reminding them that they had to find a nicely hidden place.
    "When you've found your spot, settle in and get comfy. Then before it turns light, I'll call a meeting and make a few announcements," she said.
    "I'm going over there, to the base of that statue," she confided quietly to Roderick, and pointed. "Join me if you wish. I see some nice mossy crevices."

    Roderick was flattered. Normally Hildegarde remained aloof. But of course this was not an ordinary time. Each of the mice felt a little insecure in such unknown territory. But at least they felt safer here than in the church. They would hide in the cemetery during the visit tomorrow of the Great X—and perhaps they would have to stay out here one more day, because a Great X sometimes sprayed poisonous fumes and they would have to wait for those to subside—but then probably Friday night, again under cover of darkness, they would make their way back into Saint Bartholemew's, just in time to prepare for the next dangerous time: the Blessing of the Animals.
    Hildegarde and Roderick, working together, patted the moss at the base of the stone statue into a soft bed, concealed by a flowering bush of some kind. All around them, throughout the cemetery, they could hear small squeaks and chitters as the other church mice prepared their own spots.
    "Hi!" The talkative little one, Harvey, suddenly appeared, parting the leaves of the bushes with his paws. "You got a good bed? We do! My mom found some old dead leaves! What's your statue? Can you read it? I can't read. But see there? It's got words on it!" He pointed upward. "What's it say?"
    "Shhh." Hildegarde squinted up through the darkness. "It says 'Samuel Carstairs, Patriot. R.I.P.' That means 'rest in peace.'"
    "And you should do that, Harvey," Roderick added. "Your mother will be wondering where you are. Go get some rest. Every young mouse should—"
    "Oh, hush, Roderick," Hildegarde said. "Let him run around a bit when it's dark. He'll have to sleep all day. Harvey?"
    "What?" the young mouse asked.
    "Would you make the rounds and tell everyone to gather in the center of the cemetery, by the fountain? I'm going to give instructions and make some announcements."
    "Do I have to?" Harvey whined. "I wanted to play with—"
    "Yes. You have to. Stop that whining."
    Harvey's tail, which had been twitching, sank and dragged on the ground as he trotted away. But she could hear him delivering the message, and after a few moments she could hear the rustling in the grass as all of her large tribe began to gather by the fountain.

    Drat.
Hildegarde could see, as she approached the fountain, that Lucretia had already scampered up its concrete side and assumed an authoritative pose, as if
she
were the one in charge.
Well.
She'd put a quick end to
that.
    "Thank you for holding my place, Lucretia," she said. "You may get down now."
    Lucretia, sulking, moved off the fountain rim.
    "And clean your tail when you get a chance, please," Hildegarde called after her. "There are bits of dried grass clinging to it."
    That was mean,
Hildegarde thought guiltily. But she did loathe Lucretia.
    She turned and looked down at the crowd of mice. "We're fortunate that the water in the fountain has been turned off for the winter," she said. "Otherwise you'd never hear me."
    Ignatious, in the front row, cleared his throat loudly. "It's quite an ordinary fountain," he said in his loudest voice. "Nothing like what you might find in Italy. When I lived at the—"
    "That's enough,