Today, two of the tiniest but most determined heroes in Meesylvania—Masters Felix and Christian—proud members of the Meesylvania Mouse Militia—reported for duty at the grand and crumbly Fort at No. 4.
Perched near the whispering banks of the Connecticut River in what the big maps call Charlestown, New Hampshire (that’s around 43.255° N, –72.431° W for those who read compass cheese), the fort once stood as the northernmost British settlement in the 18th century. But today? It belonged, for a moment at least, to two mice with very serious whiskers.
The fort was one of thirty built long ago to keep French foxes and unfriendly squirrels from sneaking across the frontier. But these days, it was mostly a training ground for noble mice like Felix and Christian, who’d packed their crumb rations and tiny canteens for mandatory summer training.
From the moment the sun peeked over the buttercup fields, the two stood tall (well, tall for mice) at their posts. Whether guarding the cheddar stores, inspecting acorn buttons, or watching for suspicious shadows (mostly grasshoppers), they took their job very seriously.
“Eyes sharp, whiskers sharper,” Felix whispered.
“Duty first, snack later,” Christian nodded.
They didn’t flinch, even when a butterfly buzzed past or a dandelion fluff tried to tickle their ears. No, these were professional militia mice.
Finally, just before twilight painted the sky in marmalade colors, Sgt. Badger and Corporal Weasel of the 53rd New Hampshire Militia arrived—looking quite impressed. With a nod and a formal paw-salute, the officers properly relieved the brave pair of their posts.
Felix and Christian gave a proud squeak and marched off duty, tails high, knowing they’d served Fort No. 4 with honor, squeaky boots, and mouse-sized might.