didn’t like it very well, though the lady was ever so careful not
to get the soap in his eyes. But what came after the bath,—the
rubbing, and the sitting on his lady’s knee in the warm sun until he
was perfectly dry,—he liked very much indeed. And then, when his coat
changed, the bath and the rubbing stopped that dreadful itching.
His baby coat was very soft and fine and of the same gray color all
over, excepting of course on the under side of his body, and there
it was white. But when he was three or four months old, he began to
change in many curious ways. For one thing, there came a queer growth
under his coat that surprised the lady very much. When she brushed him,
instead of a dainty white skin under his fur he seemed covered with a
sort of gray felt. Pretty soon this felt got to be a coat of long close
hair, that was very pretty, and quite different in coloring from the
baby coat, which soon began to fall out. That is why he itched so; the
loose hairs tickled him, and he was all the time biting and scratching
himself, so that it was almost impossible for the lady to brush him, he
wriggled about so.
His new coat was light gray on the sides, with a dark stripe down the
middle of the back; and there was such a pretty reddish brown stripe
between his gray sides and the pure white on the under side of his
body. At the same time, he got a reddish stripe on each side of his
face, and his face changed its shape, or else the new markings made it
look changed. You see now what was happening,—Little Mitchell was no
longer a baby. He was fast getting to be a handsome grown-up squirrel,
with all the stripes and markings of one. His face seemed to shorten up
and change in expression,—just as people change when they grow out of
childhood into grown-up men and women. Only _their_ faces grow longer
instead of shorter.
It was very pretty to watch these changes come over Little Mitchell;
but one thing troubled his lady,—as time went on he did not get
well. He would seem pretty well for a long time, but the poor little
hind legs got weaker and weaker. The lady comforted him by rubbing
them,—they seemed so stiff, just as though he were a little old man
with the rheumatism. He liked the rubbing every morning. The lady
would gently knead the muscles of his back, and then of his hind legs,
one after the other. When she got to the leg, he would stick it out
straight in her hand, it felt so good to have it rubbed.
When she had finished and put him down, he would look up at her and nod
his head,—which was his way of coaxing her to rub him some more.
The rubbing seemed to help the little legs, but it did not give them
strength; and soon Little Mitchell could not climb his screen at all.
He could climb up the table-cover, though, to the table, where he loved
to poke around among the books and papers,—and I am sorry to say he
would sometimes gnaw at a book-cover unless he were watched.
He could climb up the lady’s dress, too, quite easily, and get into her
lap, where he loved to lie stretched out. And he could climb up the
dresses that hung in the closet. The best thing there was the woolly
wrapper; he used to climb up to the hook it hung on, and sit there, and
after a while slip into the top of the sleeve and take a nap.
One day his lady hung the cuff of the sleeve on another hook, and so
made a fine hammock for him to creep into. He lay there a long while,
having the most beautiful time,—and what _do_ you suppose he was
doing? He was pulling the fuzz all off the inside of the sleeve! He did
not gnaw the cloth at all,—he just amused himself pulling off the fuzz
and rolling it into balls.
As Little Mitchell became weaker, he would often lie in his little
hammock in the closet half a day at a time. And when, finally, he got
to be too weak to climb even the woolly wrapper, the lady would lift
him up and put him into the sleeve, and he would stay there until he
wanted to come out, when he would get up on the hook from which the
wrapper hung, and wait for the lady to take him down. He was very much
afraid of falling; so he did not try to climb much. He did fall once in
a while, and it seemed to hurt him dreadfully.
But though he had become so weak, he was not at all stupid. Even in his
nest in the dark sleeve, he knew when the lady came into the closet.
I suppose it was that wonderful nose of his that told him. It did not
disturb him to have her come, even when she brushed against him. It did
not seem even to wake him up.
But one day a friend of the lady went into the big closet for
something, and passed Little Mitchell as he lay asleep in his hammock.
She did not touch him at all; but his quick little nose must have
smelled a stranger, and how he did growl and scold at her! She did not
know what it was at first, and jumped out of the closet as though a
bear had been in there.
Little Mitchell seldom sat in his little chair in those days; but the
day when Margaret and George and the baby came to see him, the lady
set him in his chair before his table and gave him a nut.
You should have seen the children,—how pleased they were! George had
the jolliest laugh you ever heard; and he was the jolliest boy, anyway.
But he was careful about laughing out loud, for fear of scaring Little
Mitchell; and Margaret was careful too. Even the baby was used to
playing with the kitten without hurting it; so that Little Mitchell was
perfectly safe with those dear little children, if he had only known
it. But he didn’t know it,—and you remember how he felt about children.
Now, what do you think he did? He ate his nut as fast as he could, and
then he tumbled out of his chair and went off to bed! Yes, he scrambled
down into his own corner, and crept into his bed—without a good-bye
look at his pretty visitors.
As time passed, Little Mitchell grew still weaker. The lady again had
to be away for a day or two, but this time she would not leave him in
his cage. She fixed his corner like a little room,—the screen, which
he could no longer climb, at one end, and the wall opposite it. The
edge of the platform, upon which he could no longer get without help,
made the third wall, and a box the fourth. In the end of his little
room opposite his bed the lady put a little dish of water, some cracked
nuts, and a bunch of grapes.
When she returned from her visit, she went right away to see how Little
Mitchell was; and what do you think? When she touched the rug, which
you remember was his bed, something like a little bear inside growled
at her!
It was funny to hear Little Mitchell growl. It was like a very mite of
a bear; but the lady was not afraid of such bears, and boldly put her
hand right into its den, when the wild bear inside gently licked her
finger and was as glad as could be to see her.
She took him out and shook out the rug, for he had carried his nuts
inside, but his grapes he had eaten outside like a nice, neat little
bear.
He got so at last that he would not eat unless he sat in his lady’s
lap. He could not sit up unless she put her hand against his back and
helped him. He would sit in her lap and look up in her face while he
ate his nuts and grapes.
When he wanted to go to her he would get as close as he could and nod
at her to take him. When he wanted anything, he would nod his head at
his lady, which was his way of saying “Please do it for me,” and she
generally understood what he wanted and did it for him.
As soon as he stopped climbing, his toe-nails grew very long and
curved, and he had not strength to pull them out of the couch-cover or
the blanket-wrapper or his lady’s dress, and she would have to help
him. Sometimes he would try to go from the couch to the floor, and his
toes would catch, and there he would hang until the lady saw him and
jumped to help him get loose.
One day she cut the tips off those troublesome nails. Her friends said
it would spoil him; but she tried it, and he was very comfortable until
they grew again, when she again very carefully cut off the sharp curved
points, and kept them short enough to be out of his way.
Sometimes when he was on the floor and wanted to get into her lap, he
would stand in front of her and nod his head, when she would reach out
her foot and he would clamber upon it. Then she would raise her foot,
and he would walk along up to her knee. When he wanted to get down from
her lap, he would reach down with his hands, and she would raise her
foot until he could walk down to it without falling; then she would
lower him to the floor.
If he wanted to go from one place to another, he just told his
lady,—by nodding, you know,—and she would put out her hand to him. He
would get upon it and keep still until she had carried him to the right
place. You see, they had got to be such friends they understood each
other very well.
Sometimes he would slip when trying to get down from the platform, or
from a chair where the lady had put him. One day he slipped and caught
by the edge of the platform, but had not strength to pull himself up
again. The lady did not see him until his strength was about gone, and
he was letting go, and about to get a fall that would hurt his poor
little crippled body; so she said, “Mitchell, hold fast a minute more;
hold fast, I’m coming,” and put down her work and hurried to him. As
she spoke, she saw him tighten up for another effort, and he held until
she got to him.
At last there came a day when the poor little fellow could not eat. The
paralysis that disabled his legs had reached the muscles of swallowing;
and then his lady knew the end had almost come. She sat on the platform
where she had so often sat while Little Mitchell sunned himself on
her knee, and took him gently in her hands. She put one little kiss
between his ears,—and maybe there were tears in her eyes. Thus did
Little Mitchell end his days.
* * * * *
It is true, he was nothing but a squirrel; but living as he did with
human beings, developing his intelligence, suffering, and learning love
and patience, he seemed very near the human life with which his own
life was spent.
THE END
THE SPINNER FAMILY
BY ALICE JEAN PATTERSON
_With many illustrations by Bruce Horsfall. Price, $1.00 net_
[Illustration: “_You see what a beauty she is_.”]
ALL wide-awake young people who are attracted by the living things
about them will find Miss Patterson’s simple story very delightful. It
will open to them a new and fascinating avenue of investigation. The
structure and habits of the spiders are all but unknown to most of us,
and we are apt to regard them as objects to be avoided. But her book
makes an apparently grewsome subject inviting, and will draw them into
a new field of much interest. Bruce Horsfall, that sympathetic artist
of nature, has drawn a frontispiece in color, and very many pictures
for the text, which reveal some of the wonders of the spider’s life,
and make the narrative doubly interesting. The whole is within the
comprehension of a child, and yet is so accurate that it may be trusted
to state nothing which the facts of science do not warrant.
BY MISS MORLEY
LIFE AND LOVE
By MARGARET WARNER MORLEY. With profuse illustrations by the Author.
Price, $1.25.
MARGARET WARNER MORLEY has written in “Life and Love” a book which
should be placed in the hands of every young man and woman. It is a
fearless yet clean-minded study of the development of life and the
relations thereof from the protoplasm to mankind. The work is logical,
instructive, impressive. It should result in the innocence of knowledge,
which is better than the innocence of ignorance. It is a pleasure to
see a woman handling so delicate a topic so well. Miss Morley deserves
thanks for doing it so impeccably. Even a prude can find nothing to carp
at in the valuable little volume.—_Boston Journal._
A SONG OF LIFE
By MARGARET WARNER MORLEY. With profuse illustrations by the Author and
by Robert Forsyth. Price, $1.25.
A MOST charmingly instructive book; and so beautifully explained is
the great subject of life that the little ones for whom it is intended
cannot but receive great benefit, while the older ones will also learn
much. Something of flower life, something of fish life, of frogs and of
birds, and a chapter on human life, form the subjects of this book, all
told in the graceful manner of a womanly woman whose love for Nature has
given her a keener insight into Nature’s secrets and a greater ability
to impart those secrets to others with the ease of face-to-face talks
than is vouchsafed to many people.—_Boston Times._
THE HONEY MAKERS
By MARGARET WARNER MORLEY. With many illustrations by the Author.
Price, $1.25.
UNLIKE Miss Morley’s other works, this book is intended for older
readers. The first part of the book is devoted to the scientific
exposition of the bee’s structure, habits, etc., and it is surprising
how much interest and humor the author has managed to infuse into the
subject. The second part performs an original and valuable service to
literature. To the bees more than to any other portion of the animal
kingdom has attention been devoted by poets and thinkers seeking
inspiration, and from this wealth of allusion and anecdote Miss Morley
has culled the choicest and most striking parts.
_For sale by all booksellers_
A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS
CHICAGO
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.