The grey Hamster is not still
At the bottom of the hill,
With his snout, whiskers stiff
Like wheat bristles, starts to sniff. 

He sniffs briefly to the ground,
He pricks up his ears to any sound.
He looks up through the wheat spikelets,
Rain hits him with hard water pellets.

After the rain stopped, the ground dried,
He chained the door from outside,
And coins in his pocket will hide.

Off he went through the small ditch
Straight to his friend, the mouse called Mitch.