MORE ABOUT SQUIRRIE
“Why, Squirrie is the mischief-maker of the neighborhood,” I said.
“He is indeed, and I would not advise you to cultivate him. He would
be sure to get you into trouble.”
“What did he do to the grandfather?” I asked.
“Caused him to commit sin by beating an innocent dog,” said Chummy
solemnly.
“Who was the dog?” I asked.
“Pluto was his name, but we all called him Cross-Patch, because he had
a snarly temper. He was a good dog, though, for he tried so hard to
overcome his faults. He had been a thief, but Grandfather had reasoned
with him, and whipped him, till at last he was a perfectly honest
dog—but he got a bad beating that Christmas.”
“Who was Grandfather?” I asked.
“Grandfather was a nice foreign man who lived in a little house round
the corner. He had made some money in selling old clothes, and he was
bringing up his daughter’s children. At Christmas time he had saved
enough money to buy a nice tree for his grandchildren. He stayed up
late Christmas eve to trim the tree, and Cross-Patch watched him. The
blinds were up and another red squirrel called Chickari, who was a
tremendous climber, told me that he watched the old man too, and it
was pretty to see him hanging little bags of candy and candles and
strings of popcorn on the branches.
“When he got through, he said, ‘Now, doggie, don’t you touch anything,
and when the children strip the tree in the morning, you shall have
your share of good things.’
“Cross-Patch wagged his tail. He had had a good supper, and was not
hungry, and then he was a reformed dog.
“Unfortunately the old man, in trotting to and fro from the kitchen to
the dining-room, where the tree was, forgot to bring Cross-Patch out,
and he had to sleep in the room with the tree. Of course he touched
nothing, but didn’t that scamp of a squirrel get in through some hole
or corner.”
“What were those squirrels doing out on a winter night?” I asked.
“Red squirrels don’t sleep like logs through the winter, as some
squirrels do,” said Chummy. “Chickari was prowling because his
supplies had run low. Squirrie was out for mischief. He has a long
head and always lays up enough and more than enough. Perhaps he felt
the Christmas stir in the air. Anyway, he got into this old rickety
cottage and ran up and down the Christmas tree, as if he were crazy,
but he scarcely touched anything at the top. Just to tease Cross-Patch
he nibbled and bit and tore at everything on the lower limbs.”
“Why didn’t Cross-Patch chase him?” I said indignantly.
“He did, but what can a dog do with a lively squirrel? Besides
Cross-Patch could not see very well, although there was a moon shining
in the room. He is getting old. However, he became so angry that at
last he made a splendid leap in the air, and caught the tip end of
Squirrie’s tail which is like a fine bushy flag. He got a mouthful of
hair, and the tail did not look so fine afterward.
“Just when the noise was at its worst, Grandfather woke up and came
in. Of course, Squirrie hid, and there stood Cross-Patch trembling in
every limb, his sorry eyes going to the torn candy bags and popcorn
strewed over the floor.
“‘So—you are a backslider,’ said the old man. ‘Well, you have robbed
my children, and I shall have to beat you.’ He was a patient old man,
but now he was angry, and Cross-Patch was getting some good whacks and
stripes from a rope end, when he began to choke over the squirrel fur
in his mouth.
“The old man stopped beating, stared at him, and took the little bunch
of fur that Cross-Patch spat out, and examined it. Then he dropped his
rope and went to the tree.
“His face fell, and he looked sad. ‘Punish first, and examine
afterward,’ he said. ‘How many persons do that with children. Why did
I not observe that a dog could not have so despoiled this little tree
without knocking it over? It is that pest of a squirrel who has been
here. I might have known. Dog, I beg your pardon,’ and he shook hands
quite solemnly with Cross-Patch who took on the air of a suffering
martyr.”
“And what did Squirrie do?” I asked. “Was his heart touched?”
“Not a bit of it. He went home chuckling, but what do you think he
found?”
“I don’t know much about squirrel ways,” I said.
“I do,” said Chummy, “and they are fine-spirited little creatures,
except the few that like to suck birds’ eggs and kill young. All the
sparrows liked Chickari, and after that night he was a perfect hero
among us. He knew Squirrie pretty well, and was sure he would remain
to gloat over his mischief, so he whipped off to his cupboard—”
“Whose cupboard?” I asked. “His own, or Squirrie’s?”
“Squirrie’s—you know the little scamp’s old home in the tree called
Snug Hollow had been boarded up, and the only place in the
neighborhood he had been able to get was a poor refuge up on a roof.
Well, Chickari knew where it was, and he had dashed off to it, and
carried away nearly all of Squirrie’s nice winter hoard before he got
back. Wasn’t Squirrie furious! He danced with rage on the moonlit
roof when he got home. So a sparrow who slept up there told us. The
noise woke him up, and he could plainly see Squirrie scampering,
leaping, chattering—nose now up, now down, his four legs digging the
snow, his tail wig-wagging! Oh, he was in a rage! He had to go south
for the rest of the winter, but he came back in the spring, more
wicked than ever, for it was in the following June that he became a
murderer.”
“A murderer!” I said in a horrified tone.
“Yes—I will tell you about it, if you are not tired of my chirping.”
“No, no—I just love to hear you,” I said warmly.