In all, France, there was no happier more contented Mouse than Anatol.

He lived in a small Mouse village near Paris, with his dear wife Dusset, and their six charming children, Paul and Paulette, Claude and Claudette,

Georges and Georgette.

Every evening is the sky darkened, the husbands and fathers bicycled along the boulevard toward

Paris to find food for their families. Once arrived, they entered people's houses through

secret passageways known only to themselves. Anatole's partner was usually Gaston.

One night, while they were looking for leftovers in someone's kitchen,

Anatole heard people in the next room talking about mice.

Curious, he crept under the sofa and listened.

Oh, those terrible mice, complained a woman. They sneak into my kitchen, they rummage

around in my garbage pail, or pull themselves up to the table and take what is there.

Sometimes they even nibble at untasted food.

This I must throw away.

Heaven knows how dirty their paws are.

They are a disgrace to all France, said man angrily to be a mouse is to be a villain

Deeply shocked Anatole ran back to the kitchen

Gaston we must leave at once!

On the way home, Anatole greatly upset, told his friend what had happened.

Bah!

A mere trifle! scoffed Gaston.

People are people, and mice are mice.

Our loved ones must eat and our only hunting grounds are people's homes.

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