There is a curious Indian legend about Meeko the red squirrel--the
Mischief-Maker, as the Milicetes call him--which is also an excellent
commentary upon his character. Simmo told it to me, one day, when we had
caught Meeko coming out of a woodpecker's hole with the last of a brood
of fledgelings in his mouth, chuckling to himself over his hunting.
Long ago, in the days when Clote Scarpe ruled the animals, Meeko was
much larger than he is now, large as Mooween the bear. But his temper
was so fierce, and his disposition so altogether bad that all the wood
folk were threatened with destruction. Meeko killed right and left with
the temper of a weasel, who kills from pure lust of blood. So Clote
Scarpe, to save the little woods-people, made Meeko smaller--small as
he is now. Unfortunately, Clote Scarpe forgot Meeko's disposition; that
remained as big and as bad as before. So now Meeko goes about the woods
with a small body and a big temper, barking, scolding, quarreling and,
since he cannot destroy in his rage as before, setting other animals by
the ears to destroy each other.
When you have listened to Meeko's scolding for a season, and have seen
him going from nest to nest after innocent fledgelings; or creeping
into the den of his big cousin, the beautiful gray squirrel, to kill
the young; or driving away his little cousin, the chipmunk, to steal his
hoarded nuts; or watching every fight that goes on in the woods, jeering
and chuckling above it,--then you begin to understand the Indian legend.
Spite of his evil ways, however, he is interesting and always
unexpected. When you have watched the red squirrel that lives near your
camp all summer, and think you know all about him, he does the queerest
thing, good or bad, to upset all your theories and even the Indian
legends about him.
I remember one that greeted me, the first living thing in the great
woods, as I ran my canoe ashore on a wilderness river. Meeko heard me
coming. His bark sounded loudly, in a big spruce, above the dip of the
paddles. As we turned shoreward, he ran down the tree in which he was,
and out on a fallen log to meet us. I grasped a branch of the old log
to steady the canoe and watched him curiously. He had never seen a
man before; he barked, jeered, scolded, jerked his tail, whistled, did
everything within his power to make me show my teeth and my disposition.
Suddenly he grew excited--and when Meeko grows excited the woods are not
big enough to hold him. He came nearer and nearer to my canoe till
he leaped upon the gunwale and sat there chattering, as if he were
Adjidaumo come back again and I were Hiawatha. All the while he had
poured out a torrent of squirrel talk, but now his note changed; jeering
and scolding and curiosity went out of it; something else crept in.
I began to feel, somehow, that he was trying to make me understand
something, and found me very stupid about it.
I began to talk quietly, calling him a rattle-head and a disturber
of the peace. At the first sound of my voice he listened with intense
curiosity, then leaped to the log, ran the length of it, jumped down and
began to dig furiously among the moss and dead leaves. Every moment or
two he would stop, and jump to the log to see if I were watching him.
Presently he ran to my canoe, sprang upon the gunwale, jumped back
again, and ran along the log as before to where he had been digging. He
did it again, looking back at me and saying plainly: "Come here; come
and look." I stepped out of the canoe to the old log, whereupon Meeko
went off into a fit of terrible excitement.--I was bigger than he
expected; I had only two legs; kut-e-k'chuck, kut-e-k'chuck! whit, whit,
whit, kut-e-k'chuck!
I stood where I was until he got over his excitement. Then he came
towards me, and led me along the log, with much chuckling and jabbering,
to the hole in the leaves where he had been digging. When I bent over
it he sprang to a spruce trunk, on a level with my head, fairly bursting
with excitement, but watching me with intensest interest. In the hole
I found a small lizard, one of the rare kind that lives under logs and
loves the dusk. He had been bitten through the back and disabled. He
could still use legs, tail and head feebly, but could not run away.
When I picked him up and held him in my hand, Meeko came closer with
loud-voiced curiosity, longing to leap to my hand and claim his own, but
held back by fear.--"What is it? He's mine; I found him. What is it?" he
barked, jumping about as if bewitched. Two curiosities, the lizard
and the man, were almost too much for him. I never saw a squirrel more
excited. He had evidently found the lizard by accident, bit him to keep
him still, and then, astonished by the rare find, hid him away where he
could dig him out and watch him at leisure.
I put the lizard back into the hole and covered him with leaves; then
went to unloading my canoe. Meeko watched me closely. And the moment I
was gone he dug away the leaves, took his treasure out, watched it with
wide bright eyes, bit it once more to keep it still, and covered it up
again carefully. Then he came chuckling along to where I was putting up
my tent.
In a week he owned the camp, coming and going at his own will, stealing
my provisions when I forgot to feed him, and scolding me roundly at
every irregular occurrence. He was an early riser and insisted on my
conforming to the custom. Every morning he would leap at daylight from
a fir tip to my ridgepole, run it along to the front and sit there,
barking and whistling, until I put my head out of my door, or until
Simmo came along with his axe. Of Simmo and his axe Meeko had a mortal
dread, which I could not understand till one day when I paddled silently
back to camp and, instead of coming up the path, sat idly in my canoe
watching the Indian, who had broken his one pipe and now sat making
another out of a chunk of black alder and a length of nanny bush. Simmo
was as interesting to watch, in his way, as any of the wood folk.
Presently Meeko came down, chattering his curiosity at seeing the Indian
so still and so occupied. A red squirrel is always unhappy unless he
knows all about everything. He watched from the nearest tree for a
while, but could not make up his mind what was doing. Then he came down
on the ground and advanced a foot at a time, jumping up continually but
coming down in the same spot, barking to make Simmo turn his head and
show his hand. Simmo watched out of the corner of his eye until Meeko
was near a solitary tree which stood in the middle of the camp ground,
when he jumped up suddenly and rushed at the squirrel, who sprang to the
tree and ran to a branch out of reach, snickering and jeering.
Simmo took his axe deliberately and swung it mightily at the foot of
the tree, as if to chop it down; only he hit the trunk with the head,
not the blade of his weapon. At the first blow, which made his toes
tingle, Meeko stopped jeering and ran higher. Simmo swung again and
Meeko went up another notch. So it went on, Simmo looking up intently
to see the effect and Meeko running higher after each blow, until the
tiptop was reached. Then Simmo gave a mighty whack; the squirrel leaped
far out and came to the ground, sixty feet below; picked himself up,
none the worse for his leap, and rushed scolding away to his nest. Then
Simmo said umpfh! like a bear, and went back to his pipemaking. He had
not smiled nor relaxed the intent expression of his face during the
whole little comedy.
I found out afterwards that making Meeko jump from a tree top is one of
the few diversions of Indian children. I tried it myself many times
with many squirrels, and found to my astonishment that a jump from any
height, however great, is no concern to a squirrel, red or gray. They
have a way of flattening the body and bushy tail against the air, which
breaks their fall. Their bodies, and especially their bushy tails, have
a curious tremulous motion, like the quiver of wings, as they come down.
The flying squirrel's sailing down from a tree top to another tree,
fifty feet away, is but an exaggeration, due to the membrane connecting
the fore and hind legs, of what all squirrels practice continually. I
have seen a red squirrel land lightly after jumping from an enormous
height, and run away as if nothing unusual had happened. But though I
have watched them often, I have never seen a squirrel do this except
when compelled to do so. When chased by a weasel or a marten, or when
the axe beats against the trunk below--either because the vibration
hurts their feet, or else they fear the tree is being cut down--they
use the strange gift to save their lives. But I fancy it is a breathless
experience, and they never try it for fun, though I have seen them do
all sorts of risky stumps in leaping from branch to branch.
It is a curious fact that, though a squirrel leaps from a great height
without hesitation, it is practically impossible to make him take a jump
of a few feet to the ground. Probably the upward rush of air, caused by
falling a long distance, is necessary to flatten the body enough to make
him land lightly.
It would be interesting to know whether the raccoon also, a large,
heavy animal, has the same way of breaking his fall when he jumps from a
height. One bright moonlight night, when I ran ahead of the dogs, I saw
a big coon leap from a tree to the ground, a distance of some thirty
or forty feet. The dogs had treed him in an evergreen, and he left them
howling below while he stole silently from branch to branch until a good
distance away, when to save time he leaped to the ground. He struck with
a heavy thump, but ran on uninjured as swiftly as before, and gave the
dogs a long run before they treed him again.
The sole of a coon's foot is padded thick with fat and gristle, so that
it must feel like landing on springs when he jumps; but I suspect that
he also knows the squirrel trick of flattening his body and tail against
the air so as to fall lightly.
The chipmunk seems to be the only one of the squirrel family in whom
this gift is wanting. Possibly he has it also, if the need ever comes.
I fancy, however, that he would fare badly if compelled to jump from a
spruce top, for his body is heavy and his tail small from long living
on the ground; all of which seems to indicate that the tree-squirrel's
bushy tail is given him, not for ornament, but to aid his passage
from branch to branch, and to break his fall when he comes down from a
height.
By way of contrast with Meeko, you may try a curious trick on the
chipmunk. It is not easy to get him into a tree; he prefers a log or an
old wall when frightened; and he is seldom more than two or three jumps
from his den. But watch him as he goes from his garner to the grove
where the acorns are, or to the field where his winter corn is ripening.
Put yourself near his path (he always follows the same one to and fro)
where there is no refuge close at hand. Then, as he comes along, rush at
him suddenly and he will take to the nearest tree in his alarm. When
he recovers from his fright--which is soon over; for he is the most
trustful of squirrels and looks down at you with interest, never
questioning your motives--take a stick and begin to tap the tree softly.
The more slow and rhythmical your tattoo the sooner he is charmed.
Presently he comes down closer and closer, his eyes filled with strange
wonder. More than once I have had a chipmunk come to my hand and rest
upon it, looking everywhere for the queer sound that brought him
down, forgetting fright and cornfield and coming winter in his bright
curiosity.
Meeko is a bird of another color. He never trusts you nor anybody else
fully, and his curiosity is generally of the vulgar, selfish kind. When
the autumn woods are busy places, and wings flutter and little feet go
pattering everywhere after winter supplies, he also begins garnering,
remembering the hungry days of last winter. But he is always more
curious to see what others are doing than to fill his own bins. He
seldom trusts to one storehouse--he is too suspicious for that--but
hides his things in twenty different places; some shagbarks in the old
wall, a handful of acorns in a hollow tree, an ear of corn under the
eaves of the old barn, a pint of chestnuts scattered about in the trees,
some in crevices in the bark, some in a pine crotch covered carefully
with needles, and one or two stuck firmly into the splinters of every
broken branch that is not too conspicuous. But he never gathers much
at a time. The moment he sees anybody else gathering he forgets his own
work and goes spying to see where others are hiding their store. The
little chipmunk, who knows his thieving and his devices, always makes
one turn, at least, in the tunnel to his den too small for Meeko to
follow.
He sees a blue jay flitting through the woods, and knows by his unusual
silence that he is hiding things. Meeko follows after him, stopping all
his jabber and stealing from tree to tree, watching patiently, for hours
it need be, until he knows that Deedeeaskh is gathering corn from a
certain field. Then he watches the line of flight, like a bee hunter,
and sees Deedeeaskh disappear twice by an oak on the wood's edge, a
hundred yards away. Meeko rushes away at a headlong pace and hides
himself in the oak. There he traces the jay's line of flight a little
farther into the woods; sees the unconscious thief disappear by an old
pine. Meeko hides in the pine, and so traces the jay straight to one of
his storehouses.
Sometimes Meeko is so elated over the discovery that, with all the
fields laden with food, he cannot wait for winter. When the jay goes
away Meeko falls to eating or to carrying away his store. More often he
marks the spot and goes away silently. When he is hungry he will carry
off Deedeeaskh's corn before touching his own.
Once I saw the tables turned in a most interesting fashion. Deedeeaskh
is as big a thief in his way as is Meeko, and also as vile a
nest-robber. The red squirrel had found a hoard of chestnuts--small
fruit, but sweet and good--and was hiding it away. Part of it he stored
in a hollow under the stub of a broken branch, twenty feet from the
ground, so near the source of supply that no one would ever think of
looking for it there. I was hidden away in a thicket when I discovered
him at his work quite by accident. He seldom came twice to the same
spot, but went off to his other storehouses in succession. After an
unusually long absence, when I was expecting him every moment, a blue
jay came stealing into the tree, spying and sneaking about, as if a
nest of fresh thrush's eggs were somewhere near. He smelled a mouse
evidently, for after a moment's spying he hid himself away in the tree
top, close up against the trunk. Presently Meeko came back, with his
face bulging as if he had toothache, uncovered his store, emptied in
the half dozen chestnuts from his cheek pockets and covered them all up
again.
The moment he was gone the blue jay went straight to the spot, seized a
mouthful of nuts and flew swiftly away. He made three trips before
the squirrel came back. Meeko in his hurry never noticed the loss, but
emptied his pockets and was off to the chestnut tree again. When he
returned, the jay in his eagerness had disturbed the leaves which
covered the hidden store. Meeko noticed it and was all suspicion in an
instant. He whipped off the covering and stood staring down intently
into the garner, evidently trying to compute the number he had brought
and the number that were there. Then a terrible scolding began, a
scolding that was broken short off when a distant screaming of jays came
floating through the woods. Meeko covered his store hurriedly, ran along
a limb and leaped to the next tree, where he hid in a knot hole, just
his eyes visible, watching his garner keenly out of the darkness.
Meeko, has no patience. Three or four times he showed himself nervously.
Fortunately for me, the jay had found some excitement to keep his
rattle-brain busy for a moment. A flash of blue, and he came stealing
back, just as Meeko had settled himself for more watching. After much
pecking and listening the jay flew down to the storehouse, and Meeko,
unable to contain himself a moment longer at sight of the thief, jumped
out of his hiding and came rushing along the limb, hurling threats and
vituperation ahead of him. The jay fluttered off, screaming derision.
Meeko followed, hurling more abuse, but soon gave up the chase and
came back to his chestnuts. It was curious to watch him there, sitting
motionless and intent, his nose close down to his treasure, trying to
compute his loss. Then he stuffed his cheeks full and began carrying his
hoard off to another hiding place.
The autumn woods are full of such little comedies. Jays, crows, and
squirrels are all hiding away winter's supplies, and no matter how great
the abundance, not one of them can resist the temptation to steal or to
break into another's garner.
Meeko is a poor provider; he would much rather live on buds and bark
and apple seeds and fir cones, and what he can steal from others in the
winter, than bother himself with laying up supplies of his own. When the
spring comes he goes a-hunting, and is for a season the most villainous
of nest-robbers. Every bird in the woods then hates him, takes a jab at
him, and cries thief, thief! wherever he goes.
On a trout brook once I had a curious sense of comradeship with Meeko.
It was in the early spring, when all the wild things make holiday, and
man goes a-fishing. Near the brook a red squirrel had tapped a maple
tree with his teeth and was tasting the sweet sap as it came up
scantily. Seeing him and remembering my own boyhood, I cut a little
hollow into the bark of a black birch tree and, when it brimmed full,
drank the sap with immense satisfaction. Meeko stopped his own drinking
to watch, then to scold and denounce me roundly.
While my cup was filling again I went down to the brook and took a wary
old trout from his den under the end of a log, where the foam bubbles
were dancing merrily. When I went back, thirsting for another sweet
draught from the same spring, Meeko had emptied it to the last drop and
had his nose down in the bottom of my cup, catching the sap as it welled
up with an abundance that must have surprised him. When I went away
quietly he followed me through the wood to the pool at the edge of the
meadow, to see what I would do next.
Wherever you go in the wilderness you find Meeko ahead of you, and all
the best camping grounds preempted by him. Even on the islands he seems
to own the prettiest spots, and disputes mightily your right to stay
there; though he is generally glad enough of your company to share his
loneliness, and shows it plainly.
Once I found one living all by himself on an island in the middle of a
wilderness lake, with no company whatever except a family of mink, who
are his enemies. He had probably crossed on the ice in the late spring,
and while he was busy here and there with his explorations the ice broke
up, cutting off his retreat to the mainland, which was too far away for
his swimming. So he was a prisoner for the long summer, and welcomed me
gladly to share his exile. He was the only red squirrel I ever met that
never scolded me roundly at least once a day. His loneliness had made
him quite tame. Most of the time he lived within sight of my tent door.
Not even Simmo's axe, though it made him jump twice from the top of a
spruce, could keep him long away. He had twenty ways of getting up an
excitement, and whenever he barked out in the woods I knew that it was
simply to call me to see his discovery,--a new nest, a loon that swam up
close, a thieving muskrat, a hawk that rested on a dead stub, the mink
family eating my fish heads,--and when I stole out to see what it was,
he would run ahead, barking and chuckling at having some one to share
his interests with him.
In such places squirrels use the ice for occasional journeys to the
mainland. Sometimes also, when the waters are calm, they swim over.
Hunters have told me that when the breeze is fair they make use of a
floating bit of wood, sitting tip straight with tail curled over
their backs, making a sail of their bodies--just as an Indian, with no
knowledge of sailing whatever, puts a spruce bush in a bow of his canoe
and lets the wind do his work for him.
That would be the sight of a lifetime, to see Meeko sailing his boat;
but I have no doubt whatever that it is true. The only red squirrel
that I ever saw in the water fell in by accident. He swam rapidly to
a floating board, shook himself, sat up with his tail raised along his
back, and began to dry himself. After a little he saw that the
slight breeze was setting him farther from shore. He began to chatter
excitedly, and changed his position two or three times, evidently trying
to catch the wind right. Finding that it was of no use, he plunged in
again and swam easily to land.
That he lives and thrives in the wilderness, spite of enemies and hunger
and winter cold, is a tribute to his wits. He never hibernates, except
in severe storms, when for a few days he lies close in his den. Hawks
and owls and weasels and martens hunt him continually; yet he more than
holds his own in the big woods, which would lose some of their charm if
their vast silences were not sometimes broken by his petty scoldings.
As with most wild creatures, the squirrels that live in touch with
civilization are much keener witted than their wilderness brethren.
The most interesting one I ever knew lived in the trees just outside my
dormitory window, in a New England college town. He was the patriarch of
a large family, and the greatest thief and rascal among them. I speak
of the family, but, so far as I could see, there was very little family
life. Each one shifted for himself the moment he was big enough, and
stole from all the others indiscriminately.
It was while watching these squirrels that I discovered first that they
have regular paths among the trees, as well defined as our own highways.
Not only has each squirrel his own private paths and ways, but all the
squirrels follow certain courses along the branches in going from one
tree to another. Even the strange squirrels, which ventured at times
into the grove, followed these highways as if they had been used to them
all their lives.
On a recent visit to the old dormitory I watched the squirrels for a
while, and found that they used exactly the same paths,--up the trunk of
a big oak to a certain boss, along a branch to a certain crook, a jump
to a linden twig and so on, making use of one of the highways that I
had watched them following ten years before. Yet this course was not
the shortest between two points, and there were a hundred other branches
that they might have used.
I had the good fortune one morning to see Meeko, the patriarch, make a
new path for himself that none of the others ever followed so long as
I was in the dormitory. He had a home den over a hallway, and a hiding
place for acorns in a hollow linden. Between the two was a driveway; but
though the branches arched over it from either side, the jump was too
great for him to take. A hundred times I saw him run out on the farthest
oak twig and look across longingly at the maple that swayed on the other
side. It was perhaps three feet away, with no branches beneath to seize
and break his fall in case he missed his spring, altogether too much for
a red squirrel to attempt. He would rush out as if determined to try it,
time after time, but always his courage failed him; he had to go down
the oak trunk and cross the driveway on the ground, where numberless
straying dogs were always ready to chase him.
One morning I saw him run twice in succession at the jump, only to turn
back. But the air was keen and bracing, and he felt its inspiration. He
drew farther back, then came rushing along the oak branch and, before he
had time to be afraid, hurled himself across the chasm. He landed fairly
on the maple twig, with several inches to spare, and hung there with
claws and teeth, swaying up and down gloriously. Then, chattering his
delight at himself, he ran down the maple, back across the driveway, and
tried the jump three times in succession to be sure he could do it.
After that he sprang across frequently. But I noticed that whenever the
branches were wet with rain or sleet he never attempted it; and he never
tried the return jump, which was uphill, and which he seemed to know by
instinct was too much to attempt.
When I began feeding him, in the cold winter days, he showed me many
curious bits of his life. First I put some nuts near the top of an old
well, among the stones of which he used to hide things in the autumn.
Long after he had eaten all his store he used to come and search the
crannies among the stones to see if perchance he had overlooked any
trifles. When he found a handful of shagbarks, one morning, in a hole
only a foot below the surface, his astonishment knew no bounds. His
first thought was that he had forgotten them all these hungry days, and
he promptly ate the biggest of the store within sight, a thing I never
saw a squirrel do before. His second thought--I could see it in his
changed attitude, his sudden creepings and hidings--was that some
other squirrel had hidden them there since his last visit. Whereupon he
carried them all off and hid them in a broken linden branch.
Then I tossed him peanuts, throwing them first far away, then nearer and
nearer till he would come to my window-sill. And when I woke one morning
he was sitting there looking in at the window, waiting for me to get up
and bring his breakfast.
In a week he had showed me all his hiding places. The most interesting
of these was over a roofed piazza in a building near by. He had gnawed a
hole under the eaves, where it would not be noticed, and lived there in
solitary grandeur during stormy days in a den four by eight feet, and
rain-proof. In one corner was a bushel of corncobs, some of them two
or three years old, which he had stolen from a cornfield near by in the
early autumn mornings. With characteristic improvidence he had fallen
to eating the corn while yet there was plenty more to be gathered. In
consequence he was hungry before February was half over, and living by
his wits, like his brother of the wilderness.
The other squirrels soon noticed his journeys to my window, and
presently they too came for their share. Spite of his fury in driving
them away, they managed in twenty ways to circumvent him. It was most
interesting, while he sat on my window-sill eating peanuts, to see the
nose and eyes of another squirrel peering over the crotch of the nearest
tree, watching the proceedings from his hiding place. Then I would give
Meeko five or six peanuts at once. Instantly the old hiding instinct
would come back; he would start away, taking as much of his store as
he could carry with him. The moment he was gone, out would come a
squirrel--sometimes two or three from their concealment--and carry off
all the peanuts that remained.
Meeko's wrath when he returned was most comical. The Indian legend
is true as gospel to squirrel nature. If he returned unexpectedly and
caught one of the intruders, there was always a furious chase and a
deal of scolding and squirrel jabber before peace was restored and the
peanuts eaten.
Once, when he had hidden a dozen or more nuts in the broken linden
branch, a very small squirrel came prowling along and discovered
the store. In an instant he was all alertness, peeking, listening,
exploring, till quite sure that the coast was clear, when he rushed away
headlong with a mouthful.
He did not return that day; but the next morning early I saw him do the
same thing. An hour later Meeko appeared and, finding nothing on the
window-sill, went to the linden. Half his store of yesterday was gone.
Curiously enough, he did not suspect at first that they were stolen.
Meeko is always quite sure that nobody knows his secrets. He searched
the tree over, went to his other hiding places, came back, counted his
peanuts, then searched the ground beneath, thinking, no doubt, the wind
must have blown them out--all this before he had tasted a peanut of
those that remained.
Slowly it dawned upon him that he had been robbed and there was an
outburst of wrath. But instead of carrying what were left to another
place, he left them where they were, still without eating, and hid
himself near by to watch. I neglected a lecture in philosophy to see the
proceedings, but nothing happened. Meeko's patience soon gave out, or
else he grew hungry, for he ate two or three of his scanty supply of
peanuts, scolding and threatening to himself. But he left the rest
carefully where they were.
Two or three times that day I saw him sneaking about, keeping a sharp
eye on the linden; but the little thief was watching too, and kept out
of the way.
Early next morning a great hubbub rose outside my window, and I jumped
up to see what was going on. Little Thief had come back, and Big Thief
caught him in the act of robbery. Away they went pell-mell, jabbering
like a flock of blackbirds, along a linden branch, through two maples,
across a driveway, and up a big elm where Little Thief whisked out of
sight into a knot hole.
After him came Big Thief, swearing vengeance. But the knot hole was too
small; he couldn't get in. Twist and turn and push and threaten as he
would, he could not get in; and Little Thief sat just inside jeering
maliciously.
Meeko gave it up after a while and went off, nursing his wrath. But ten
feet from the tree a thought struck him. He rushed away out of sight,
making a great noise, then came back quietly and hid under an eave where
he could watch the knot hole.
Presently Little Thief came out, rubbed his eyes, and looked all about.
Through my glass I could see Meeko blinking and twitching under the dark
eave, trying to control his anger. Little Thief ventured to a branch a
few feet away from his refuge, and Big Thief, unable to hold himself a
moment longer, rushed out, firing a volley of direful threats ahead of
him. In a flash Little Thief was back in his knot hole and the comedy
began all over again.
I never saw how it ended; but for a day or two there was an unusual
amount of chasing and scolding going on outside my windows.
It was this same big squirrel that first showed me a curious trick
of biding. Whenever he found a handful of nuts on my windowsill and
suspected that other squirrels were watching to share the bounty, he had
a way of hiding them all very rapidly. He would never carry them direct
to his various garners; first, because these were too far away, and the
other squirrels would steal while he was gone; second, because, with
hungry eyes watching somewhere, they might follow and find out where he
habitually kept things. So he used to bide them all on the ground, under
the leaves in autumn, under snow in winter, and all within sight of the
window-sill, where he could watch the store as he hurried to and fro.
Then, at his leisure, he would dig them up and carry them off to his
den, two cheekfuls at a time.
Each nut was hidden by itself; never so much as two in one spot. For
a long time it puzzled me to know how he remembered so many places. I
noticed first that he would always start from a certain point, a tree or
a stone, with his burden. When it was hidden he would come back by the
shortest route to the windowsill; but with his new mouthful he would
always go first to the tree or stone he had selected, and from there
search out a new hiding place.
It was many days before I noticed that, starting from one fixed point,
he generally worked toward another tree or stone in the distance. Then
his secret was out; he hid things in a line. Next day he would come
back, start from his fixed point and move slowly towards the distant one
till his nose told him he was over a peanut, which he dug up and ate or
carried away to his den. But he always seemed to distrust himself; for
on hungry days he would go over two or three of his old lines in the
hope of finding a mouthful that he had overlooked.
This method was used only when he had a large supply to dispose of
hurriedly, and not always then. Meeko is a careless fellow and
soon forgets. When I gave him only a few to dispose of, he hid them
helter-skelter among the leaves, forgetting some of them afterwards
and enjoying the rare delight of stumbling upon them when he was
hungriest--much like a child whom I saw once giving himself a sensation.
He would throw his penny on the ground, go round the house, and saunter
back with his hands in his pockets till he saw the penny, which he
pounced upon with almost the joy of treasure-trove in the highway.
Meeko made a sad end--a fate which he deserved well enough, but which I
had to pity, spite of myself. When the spring came on, he went back to
evil ways. Sap was sweet and buds were luscious with the first swelling
of tender leaves; spring rains had washed out plenty of acorns in the
crannies under the big oak, and there were fresh-roasted peanuts still
at the corner window-sill within easy jump of a linden twig; but he took
to watching the robins to see where they nested, and when the young were
hatched he came no more to my window. Twice I saw him with fledgelings
in his mouth; and I drove him day after day from a late clutch of
robin's eggs that I could watch from my study.
He had warnings enough. Once some students, who had been friendly all
winter, stoned him out of a tree where he was nestrobbing; once the
sparrows caught him in their nest under the high eaves, and knocked
him off promptly. A twig upon which he caught in falling saved his life
undoubtedly, for the sparrows were after him and he barely escaped into
a knot hole, leaving the angry horde clamoring outside. But nothing
could reform him.
One morning at daylight a great crying of robins brought me to the
window. Meeko was running along a limb, the first of the fledgelings in
his mouth. After him were five or six robins whom the parents' danger
cry had brought to the rescue. They were all excited and tremendously in
earnest. They cried thief! thief! and swooped at him like hawks. Their
cries speedily brought a score of other birds, some to watch, others to
join in the punishment.
Meeko dropped the young bird and ran for his den; but a robin dashed
recklessly in his face and knocked him fair from the tree. That and the
fall of the fledgeling excited the birds more than ever. This thieving
bird-eater was not invulnerable. A dozen rushed at him on the ground
and left the marks of their beaks on his coat before he could reach the
nearest tree.
Again he rushed for his den, but wherever he turned now angry wings
fluttered over him and beaks jabbed in his face. Raging but frightened,
he sat up to snarl wickedly. Like a flash a robin hurled himself down,
caught the squirrel just under his ear and knocked him again to the
ground.
Things began to look dark for Meeko. The birds grew bolder and angrier
every minute. When he started to climb a tree he was hurled off twice
ere he reached a crotch and drew himself down into it. He was safe there
with his back against a big limb; they could not get at him from behind.
But the angry clamor in front frightened him, and again he started for
his place of refuge. His footing was unsteady now and his head dizzy
from the blows he had received. Before he had gone half a limb's length
he was again on the ground, with a dozen birds pecking at him as they
swooped over.
With his last strength he snapped viciously at his foes and rushed to
the linden. My window was open, and he came creeping, hurrying towards
it on the branch over which he had often capered so lightly in the
winter days. Over him clamored the birds, forgetting all fear of me in
their hatred of the nestrobber.
A dozen times he was struck on the way, but at every blow he clung to
the branch with claws and teeth, then staggered on doggedly, making no
defense. His whole thought now was to reach the window-sill.
At the place where he always jumped he stopped and began to sway,
gripping the bark with his claws, trying to summon strength for the
effort. He knew it was too much, but it was his last hope. At the
instant of his spring a robin swooped in his face; another caught him
a side blow in mid-air, and he fell heavily to the stones below.--Sic
semper tyrannis! yelled the robins, scattering wildly as I ran down the
steps to save him, if it were not too late.
He died in my hands a moment later, with curious maliciousness nipping
my finger sharply at the last gasp. He was the only squirrel of the lot
who knew how to hide in a line; and never a one since his day has taken
the jump from oak to maple over the driveway.