After several days of cold wintry weather, the sun burst through the
clouds again, calling into life plants, and insects, _and squirrels_.
Brush and his wife, and their three children, who were born the
preceding summer, and had lived with their parents through the winter,
were all awake and enjoying themselves again. How they frolicked and
chased each other about from tree to tree, and played at hide-and-seek
among the branches! You would have thought that they had laid wagers
with each other, who should venture upon the most difficult and
dangerous leaps.
Then what feasting there was upon buds and young bark! and though this
fresh green food was very nice as a change, still they all seemed to
agree with our friend Brush, that nuts and acorns were not to be
despised neither.
Once or twice the gamekeeper gave the young squirrels a terrible fright
by shouting to them, when they were making free with the tender bark of
his master's trees; but their parents told them, as they had often done
before, that there was nothing to fear from Harvey, nor from his
frightful looking gun. I hope you have not forgotten who it was that
had saved the lives of so many squirrels. But if Harvey's frolicsome
young spaniels, Flora and Juno, had met with one of our friends at a
distance from any tree, I am afraid it would have been a bad business,
for squirrels cannot run very fast on the ground, and their bushy tails
seem rather in the way there. And the cunning little animals appear to
know this, for though they sometimes come down to the ground, you will
very seldom see them at any great distance from a tree.
A few days after the squirrels roused themselves from their long winter
sleep, their cousins, the dormice, in the thicket at the foot of the
tree, opened their sleepy eyes at last, and came out of their nests.
But when they were once thoroughly awake, their eyes did not look
sleepy at all, but on the contrary, were most beautifully bright and
dark, and rather large for the size of the animal.
[Illustration: THE DORMICE. Page 23.]
I call the dormouse a relation to the squirrel,[2] because in some
respects, he is really very like him, though at first sight you would
not think so, and would perhaps say, that he was very little different
from a common mouse, except in being rather fatter, and of a prettier
colour. But his tail, though not nearly so large and bushy, is
something like the squirrel's, and not at all like that of the mouse,
which is almost entirely bare of hair, and in my opinion, has a very
ugly and disagreeable appearance. The tail of the dormouse is handsome,
and useful also, for when he sleeps he curls it over his head and back,
to keep him warm and comfortable. Then in his habits he resembles the
squirrel, for like him he can climb trees well, though he cannot leap
very far, and he likes to dwell in the shade and retirement of the
pleasant woods, far from the habitations of man. Here he generally
makes his nest, which is composed of moss and leaves, in the thickest
parts of bushes or underwood, and he lays up a winter store, like the
squirrel.
[2] The genus _myoxus_, to which the dormouse belongs, appears to
be intermediate between the genera _sciurus_ and _mus_, in each
of which this animal has been placed by different naturalists.
Dormice are such sociable little creatures, that several families are
sometimes found living close together, like those that had chosen their
habitations at the foot of our squirrel's great oak-tree. Perhaps
before I have finished this tale I may have something more to tell you
about little Gotobed, the dormouse.
Do you suppose that Brush and his family spent the whole of the summer
in frolicking and feasting? No, indeed! for even squirrels have work to
do, and duties to perform. So, after a few days spent in the merry way
I have described, one afternoon, when their children were gone on an
excursion to the larch-grove, Mr. and Mrs. Brush perched themselves up
on the topmost branch of their own oak-tree, and had some very serious
conversation together. At least, they meant that the conversation
should be serious; but Brush was such a merry waggish fellow, that he
seldom could talk very long upon any subject without a laugh or a joke.
"Well, my dear," he began very gravely, "this is the third family you
and I have seen playing around us. For three years we have lived
happily together in this old oak, and a finer tree or a more
comfortable nest than ours I do not believe can be found in the whole
world."
Here in the gaiety of his heart he darted off to a neighbouring bough,
and after performing a few strange antics for his companion's
amusement, he was again perched up by her side, and went on with his
speech.
"Three years," continued he, "yes, I declare, it is three years since I
persuaded you to have nothing more to say to that tiresome old fellow
Bigtail, and to take me for a companion instead."
"Come, come, you rogue," said his wife, "if this is the serious
conversation you wanted to have with me, you may as well hold your
tongue."
"Ha! ha!" he proceeded without attending to the interruption, "ha! ha!
I remember that conceited old fellow Bigtail, and how you preferred him
to me, because his tail was the least bit in the world longer than
mine. I made him ashamed of his fine tail though at last. Oh, what fun!
I shall never forget it! He was stuck up by your side, talking the most
ridiculous stuff, I dare say, when I leaped down suddenly upon him from
the branch above. I never did anything better in my life! Over he went
like a dead thing. The old fellow was too much frightened, and too
stiff in his joints, to catch hold of the boughs below, so down he
tumbled to the ground. I declare I thought he was killed! But no, he
only broke--ha! ha! ha! I am ready to die when I think of it--he only
_broke his tail_! Ha! ha! he never could hold it up over his back
afterwards, so there it was always dragging behind him, like a bundle
of dead grass. What a ridiculous old fellow! After that tumble, he
always went by the name Brokentail, instead of Bigtail; and from that
time you never could abide him, you know."
"Really, Mr. Brush," said his partner, "if you make such a fool of
yourself, I wont speak another word to you all day. What has all this
nonsense to do with the serious conversation you wished to have with me
about the children?"
"Oh yes, it was about the children I wanted to talk to you," replied
Brush, "and not about old Broken----. Well, well, I wont say anything
more about him, then, so come and sit down quietly again, and I'll be
very serious indeed! There! now we are all right once more. Well, my
dear, now then about these children of ours. I believe you know what I
am going to say--_we must part from them_, Mrs. Brush! It is high time
for you and me to see about putting the nest in order for another
family, and these three children of ours must go and see the world, and
find companions for themselves, for the rest of their lives. I only
hope that when the boys are seeking for companions they will not break
their tails like old ----; I mean, I hope they will both meet with as
good a partner as their mother has been to me."
The two old squirrels had a great deal more talk upon this subject, but
as conversation about family affairs is often rather tiresome, I shall
not repeat all they said about the matter. Though they both regretted
parting from their children, they were convinced that a separation was
necessary, and they agreed that the sooner it took place the better.
Perhaps you may think they were rather unamiable and hard-hearted, in
treating their children in this manner; but you must remember that,
though these were not yet a year old, they were very nearly, if not
quite, as large as their parents, and were well able to take care of
themselves.
When the young squirrels were informed of this determination, they were
very sorry at first; but the thoughts of being their own masters, and
of having comfortable nests of their own, reconciled them to the
separation. I never heard what good advice their parents gave them at
parting, but I have not the least doubt that Brush cautioned them to
beware of the sad fate of old Brokentail.
So the three children, leaving their native tree, set off by themselves
into the wide world, and I have nothing more to tell you about _them_.
We must see what Brush and his companion did during the rest of the
summer, what adventures they met with, and what new acquaintances they
found among the various animals that lived in the neighbourhood of
their beautiful oak-tree.
Here I must give you a short description of the place where this tree
grew, and where it had flourished for five or six hundred years at
least.
It was in a small, but very beautiful valley, through which ran a brook
of the clearest water imaginable. This little stream came down from the
hills, and ran through the upper part of the valley, in a very furious
manner, as if it were in a hurry to be gone, that it might join the
dark deep river, and reach the wide ocean at last. But just at the spot
where our oak raised its head very far above all the trees around it,
the impatient stream gradually changed its manner of proceeding, and
began to run more slowly, as if desirous of remaining a little longer
in such a delightful spot. So, after quietly winding backwards and
forwards for some time, it spread itself out at last into the form of a
most beautiful little pond, through which the current was so slow that
it was hardly perceptible.
The gentleman to whom this valley, and the country around it, belonged,
had spent many hundreds of pounds, and had employed the most skilful
people he could find, in making his gardens and pleasure-grounds as gay
and beautiful as possible. And yet, if you had walked all over his
property, you would have said that no part of it was half so lovely as
this little retired valley, where the art of man had never done
anything to add to its exceeding beauty. The gardener's spade and
pruning-knife had never been used here. Everything you saw was fresh
and unaltered from the hand of God himself.
I think the most beautiful part was the pond, and the open space just
around it; for here the finest wild-flowers grew in abundance, and the
noble oak-tree was so near, that, when the winds of autumn came down
the valley, the trout, that delighted to swim in those pure waters,
were sometimes startled by a shower of acorns, falling down from the
outermost branches, and making a terrible splash over their heads.
I have not time to describe more than a very few of the plants which
were to be found in the pond and on its banks. There was the
water-lily, with its large green leaves laying flat upon the water, and
its splendid white flowers, just raising their heads above the surface;
the flowering-rush, which bears a bunch of beautiful pink blossoms on a
high tapering stem; and the buckbean, which, though at a distance it
does not look so grand as the other two, has such an exquisitely
beautiful fringe on its pinky-white flowers, that the most skilful
painter has never yet been able to produce even a tolerable imitation
of it.
Many other lovely plants there were growing round the pond, and in
other parts of this delightful little valley: plants which exceeded in
beauty many of those we cultivate with so much care in our gardens and
hot-houses. But when I began this little history I meant to write about
"Squirrels and other Animals," and not to give a description of plants.
We must therefore return to our friends in the oak-tree.