Mice and Men You have finished reading Of Mice and Men and now know what happens to Lennie and George. People often regard the ending of the book as surprising and unfair, but, really, from the beginning, Steinbeck has been foreshadowing this tragic ending by giving us clues to tell us how he, as the writer, felt about Lennie’s demise. He does this primarily in two ways: through the title of the novella and through the symbolism of Candy’s dog. The title We have talked about how there are lots of contrasts in this book, and the title is no exception. Steinbeck has divided up the characters into those who are like animals but are perceived as worthwhile beings by society and those who society sees as worthless animals but are actually compassionate human beings, and we see this idea reflected to an extent in the title. The title itself, though, comes from the poem “To a Mouse” by a Scottish guy named Robert Burns. Here is the poem: Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty Wi bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murdering pattle.
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell.
I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth born companion An' fellow mortal!
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld.
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't.
But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's win's ensuin, Baith snell an' keen!
Still thou are blest, compared wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear