Once, deep in the woods, I sat down on a rock to rest. It was quiet as
the grave, and I had the feeling that I might almost have been the first
man here.
Suddenly I heard a rattling in the trees. It startled me at first, and
then I saw a flash of movement, and realized it was a squirrel running
down a tree trunk.
I sat there real still. Soon there was another squirrel. And then
another. They were odd little fellows—only half as big as the ordinary
squirrel. Later I learned the mountain people call them “boomers.”
One of them walked a fallen log right up to within six feet of me, and
sat there on his haunches, eating and staring.
I gave a little whistle. He stared harder. Then I whistled again. And
several more times. And maybe you think I didn’t feel silly, and a
little thrilled, too, when a bird started answering me. Yessir. I’d
whistle, and the bird would whistle right back. It made me feel like
Audubon or Thoreau or somebody.
That went on for five minutes. But finally I had to go. So I got up and
said, “To hell with you, you lousy little squirrels and birds, you’d
probably eat me up if you had a chance.”
Any savage squirrel that attacks me will get the toe of my boot right
where he sits down, that’s what he’ll get. No squirrel is going to eat
me up. I got up to the top of the mountain without anything else
happening.