Sámson egér kalandjai

Mr. Watson’s house. Inside the little vole’s
mousehole was a tiny kitchen, a tiny room
and an even tinier pantry.
In the room there was nothing else
but a bed, a minute bedside table and a
wardrobe. The wardrobe was a tatty piece
of furniture, its door opened with a creak.
It had a pleasant smell, like that of newly
cut wood, and its unusually shaped
keyhole figured emptily in the doorway as
though it were abandoned.
The street was quiet - only the soft sound
of raindrops could be heard. A breeze
gently swept the dry autumn leaves ahead,
and the enormous street lamps
illuminated the sleepy surroundings with a
scattered, mysterious light.
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