Bless this Mouse by Lois Lowry

well..."
    She sighed, and glanced at the sky. The moon had risen. "I have to go speak to them, Ignatious. They must prepare. I'll just have to—"
    She was interrupted by a noisy rustle in the nearby shrubbery. Roderick pushed his way through, dragging something white. Behind him scampered Harvey, whining, as usual. "Nobody told me I couldn't! I wasn't doing anything wrong! Just looking for food!"
    "Shhh." Hildegarde ordered the little mouse to be quiet. "What's this, Roderick?"
    Roderick dropped what he'd been carrying clenched in his big teeth. Then he huffed and puffed, catching his breath, and finally turned to the to sulking little mouse beside him. "I'm not mad at you, Harvey! Stop fussing!"
    He looked at Hildegarde and Ignatious. "Harvey here noticed that the sexton put the trash out for tomorrow's collection—"
    "Yes, it's Friday. He always puts it out on Friday evenings."
    "So Harvey scampered over to check on it, and—"
    Harvey wiggled, waved his tail, and squeaked, "I know you told us not to leave the cemetery! But I just went for a
minute!
You know, sometimes there's good stuff in the trash! And I was going to share! I promise I was going to share!"
    "Hush, Harvey, we're not upset with you," Hildegarde said impatiently. "What did he find, Roderick?"
    Roderick dragged the torn paper—apparently Harvey had already shredded one corner—over to where she and Ignatious were crouched side by side. "The light's terrible," he said, "but can you read it?"
    Hildegarde squinted at the paper. Mouse vision was poor; they relied on noses and ears, mostly. She went closer and said, "Move aside, Roderick. You're blocking the moonlight." Dutifully Roderick backed up so that the full light of the risen moon illuminated the paper.
    "Pest-B-Gone," she read aloud, and made a face.
    Ignatious came to stand beside her and looked down as well at the paper. "Invoice," he read.
    "What's
invoice?
" asked Harvey. "I don't know what
invoice
means! In voice? Is it about singing? I'm pretty good at singing! Listen!" He warbled briefly, "
Rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in theeeee...
    "Am I in voice? Huh? Huh?"
    "Quiet, Harvey. It just means 'bill.' It's what Father Murphy had to pay the Great X." Ignatious looked at the amount written near the bottom of the page, after "total." "Yikes!" he said in astonishment. "It was a lot!"
    Hildegarde was leaning forward over the paper. "We don't care what he paid. They collect that offering every Sunday. They're rich. But look here, Ignatious! Here's the information we needed!" With one paw she pointed to the lines of text above the total amount.
    "Good," Ignatious said. "He's listed the kind of poison. I know what that looks like. So we can give specific instructions about what not to nibble. But what's that written lower down? I have difficulty seeing even in the best light. Getting old! Can you read that, Hildegarde?"
    "Yes. It's what we feared. He calls them 'glue boards,'" she said.
    "
Glue boards?
What're
glue boards?
Like snow boards? Like skateboards? I know what those are!" Harvey arranged his rear paws as if he were on a skateboard, and stood erect, pretending to balance with his front paws. "Look! Watch me! Kickflip! A one-eighty ollie! I'm really cool!"
    "STOP IT!" Hildegarde ordered him angrily.
    Harvey retreated, sulking, into the bushes.
    The adults ignored him. "Read the rest, about the glue boards," Ignatious said in a worried voice.
    "It doesn't say anything else. Just the number, and the price."
    "What number?" asked Roderick. "How many?"
    Hildegarde peered at the paper again. "Fifty-two," she told them.
    Ignatious gave an
oof
sound, as if he'd been punched in the belly. "Fifty-two glue boards!" he said gloomily. "How on earth can we deal with that?"
    Hildegarde had risen to stand on her back legs. Her tail steadied her. She was silent for a moment, in that commanding position. Then she said to Ignatious and Roderick (but not to Harvey, who had scampered