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And now, at the last, I am going to tell you something of the ways and
doings of one of the queer little people, whom I shall call Whiskey.
On this page is his picture. But you cannot imagine from this how pretty
he is. His back has the most beautiful smooth shining stripes of reddish
brown and black, his eyes shine like bright glass beads, and he sits up
jauntily on his hind quarters, with his little tail thrown over his back
like a ruffle!
And where does he live? Well, “that is telling,” as we children say.
It was somewhere up in the mountains of Berkshire, in a queer, quaint,
old-fashioned garden, that I made Mr. Whiskey’s acquaintance.
Here there lives a young parson, who preaches every Sunday in a little
brown church, and during week-days goes through all these hills and
valleys, visiting the poor, and gathering children into Sunday schools.
His wife is a very small-sized lady,—not much bigger than you, my little
Mary,—but very fond of all sorts of dumb animals; and by constantly
watching their actions and ways, she has come to have quite a strange
power over them, as I shall relate.
The little lady fixed her mind on Whiskey, and gave him his name without
consulting him upon the subject. She admired his bright eyes, and
resolved to cultivate his acquaintance.
By constant watching, she discovered that he had a small hole of his own
in the grass-plot a few paces from her back door. So she used to fill
her pockets with hazelnuts, and go out and sit in the back porch, and
make a little noise, such as squirrels make to each other, to attract his
attention.
In a minute or two up would pop the little head with the bright eyes,
in the grass-plot, and Master Whiskey would sit on his haunches and
listen, with one small ear cocked towards her. Then she would throw him
a hazelnut, and he would slip instantly down into his hole again. In
a minute or two, however, his curiosity would get the better of his
prudence; and she, sitting quiet, would see the little brown-striped
head slowly, slowly coming up again, over the tiny green spikes of the
grass-plot. Quick as a flash he would dart at the nut, whisk it into a
little bag on one side of his jaws, which Madame Nature has furnished
him with for his provision-pouch, and down into his hole again! An
ungrateful, suspicious little brute he was too; for though in this way
he bagged and carried off nut after nut, until the patient little woman
had used up a pound of hazelnuts, still he seemed to have the same wild
fright at sight of her, and would whisk off and hide himself in his hole
the moment she appeared. In vain she called, “Whiskey, Whiskey, Whiskey,”
in the most flattering tones; in vain she coaxed and cajoled. No, no; he
was not to be caught napping. He had no objection to accepting her nuts,
as many as she chose to throw to him; but as to her taking any personal
liberty with him, you see, it was not to be thought of!
But at last patience and perseverance began to have their reward. Little
Master Whiskey said to himself, “Surely, this is a nice, kind lady, to
take so much pains to give me nuts; she is certainly very considerate;”
and with that he edged a little nearer and nearer every day, until, quite
to the delight of the small lady, he would come and climb into her lap
and seize the nuts, when she rattled them there, and after that he seemed
to make exploring voyages all over her person. He would climb up and sit
on her shoulder; he would mount and perch himself on her head; and, when
she held a nut for him between her teeth, would take it out of her mouth.
After a while he began to make tours of discovery in the house. He would
suddenly appear on the minister’s writing-table, when he was composing
his Sunday sermon, and sit cocking his little pert head at him, seeming
to wonder what he was about. But in all his explorations he proved
himself a true Yankee squirrel, having always a shrewd eye on the main
chance. If the parson dropped a nut on the floor, down went Whiskey after
it, and into his provision-bag it went, and then he would look up as if
he expected another; for he had a wallet on each side of his jaws, and he
always wanted both sides handsomely filled before he made for his hole.
So busy and active, and always intent on this one object, was he, that
before long the little lady found he had made way with six pounds of
hazelnuts. His general rule was to carry off four nuts at a time,—three
being stuffed into the side-pockets of his jaws, and the fourth held in
his teeth. When he had furnished himself in this way, he would dart like
lightning for his hole, and disappear in a moment; but in a short time up
he would come, brisk and wide-awake, and ready for the next supply.
Once a person who had the curiosity to dig open a chipping squirrel’s
hole found in it two quarts of buckwheat, a quantity of grass-seed,
nearly a peck of acorns, some Indian corn, and a quart of walnuts; a
pretty handsome supply for a squirrel’s winter store-room,—don’t you
think so?
Whiskey learned in time to work for his living in many artful ways that
his young mistress devised. Sometimes she would tie his nuts up in a
paper package, which he would attack with great energy, gnawing the
strings, and rustling the nuts out of the paper in wonderfully quick
time. Sometimes she would tie a nut to the end of a bit of twine, and
swing it backward and forward over his head; and, after a succession of
spry jumps, he would pounce upon it, and hang swinging on the twine, till
he had gnawed the nut away.
Another squirrel—doubtless hearing of Whiskey’s good luck—began to haunt
the same yard; but Whiskey would by no means allow him to cultivate his
young mistress’s acquaintance. No indeed! he evidently considered that
the institution would not support two. Sometimes he would appear to be
conversing with the stranger on the most familiar and amicable terms in
the back yard: but if his mistress called his name, he would immediately
start and chase his companion quite out of sight, before he came back to
her.
So you see that self-seeking is not confined to men alone, and that
Whiskey’s fine little fur coat covers a very selfish heart.
As winter comes on, Whiskey will go down into his hole, which has many
long galleries and winding passages, and a snug little bedroom well
lined with leaves. Here he will doze and dream away his long winter
months, and nibble out the inside of his store of nuts.
If I hear any more of his cunning tricks, I will tell you of them.
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