THE DOUGLAS SQUIRREL
(_Sciurus Douglasii_)
The Douglas Squirrel is by far the most interesting and influential of
the California sciuridae, surpassing every other species in force of
character, numbers, and extent of range, and in the amount of influence
he brings to bear upon the health and distribution of the vast forests
he inhabits.
Go where you will throughout the noble woods of the Sierra Nevada,
among the giant pines and spruces of the lower zones, up through the
towering Silver Firs to the storm-bent thickets of the summit peaks,
you everywhere find this little squirrel the master-existence. Though
only a few inches long, so intense is his fiery vigor and restlessness,
he stirs every grove with wild life, and makes himself more important
than even the huge bears that shuffle through the tangled underbrush
beneath him. Every wind is fretted by his voice, almost every bole and
branch feels the sting of his sharp feet. How much the growth of the
trees is stimulated by this means it is not easy to learn, but his
action in manipulating their seeds is more appreciable. Nature has made
him master forester and committed most of her coniferous crops to his
paws. Probably over fifty per cent. of all the cones ripened on the
Sierra are cut off and handled by the Douglas alone, and of those of
the Big Trees perhaps ninety per cent. pass through his hands: the
greater portion is of course stored away for food to last during the
winter and spring, but some of them are tucked separately into loosely
covered holes, where some of the seeds germinate and become trees. But
the Sierra is only one of the many provinces over which he holds sway,
for his dominion extends over all the Redwood Belt of the Coast
Mountains, and far northward throughout the majestic forests of Oregon,
Washington, and British Columbia. I make haste to mention these facts,
to show upon how substantial a foundation the importance I ascribe to
him rests.
The Douglas is closely allied to the Red Squirrel or Chickaree of the
eastern woods. Ours may be a lineal descendant of this species,
distributed westward to the Pacific by way of the Great Lakes and the
Rocky Mountains, and thence southward along our forested ranges. This
view is suggested by the fact that our species becomes redder and more
Chickaree-like in general, the farther it is traced back along the
course indicated above. But whatever their relationship, and the
evolutionary forces that have acted upon them, the Douglas is now the
larger and more beautiful animal.
From the nose to the root of the tail he measures about eight inches;
and his tail, which he so effectively uses in interpreting his
feelings, is about six inches in length. He wears dark bluish-gray over
the back and half-way down the sides, bright buff on the belly, with a
stripe of dark gray, nearly black, separating the upper and under
colors; this dividing stripe, however, is not very sharply defined. He
has long black whiskers, which gives him a rather fierce look when
observed closely, strong claws, sharp as fish-hooks, and the brightest
of bright eyes, full of telling speculation.
A King’s River Indian told me that they call him “Pillillooeet,” which,
rapidly pronounced with the first syllable heavily accented, is not
unlike the lusty exclamation he utters on his way up a tree when
excited. Most mountaineers in California call him the Pine Squirrel;
and when I asked an old trapper whether he knew our little forester, he
replied with brightening countenance: “Oh, yes, of course I know him;
everybody knows him. When I’m huntin’ in the woods, I often find out
where the deer are by his barkin’ at ’em. I call ’em Lightnin’
Squirrels, because they’re so mighty quick and peert.”
All the true squirrels are more or less birdlike in speech and
movements; but the Douglas is preëminently so, possessing, as he does,
every attribute peculiarly squirrelish enthusiastically concentrated.
He is the squirrel of squirrels, flashing from branch to branch of his
favorite evergreens crisp and glossy and undiseased as a sunbeam. Give
him wings and he would outfly any bird in the woods. His big gray
cousin is a looser animal, seemingly light enough to float on the wind;
yet when leaping from limb to limb, or out of one tree-top to another,
he sometimes halts to gather strength, as if making efforts concerning
the upshot of which he does not always feel exactly confident. But the
Douglas, with his denser body, leaps and glides in hidden strength,
seemingly as independent of common muscles as a mountain stream. He
threads the tasseled branches of the pines, stirring their needles like
a rustling breeze; now shooting across openings in arrowy lines; now
launching in curves, glinting deftly from side to side in sudden
zigzags, and swirling in giddy loops and spirals around the knotty
trunks; getting into what seem to be the most impossible situations
without sense of danger; now on his haunches, now on his head; yet ever
graceful, and punctuating his most irrepressible outbursts of energy
with little dots and dashes of perfect repose. He is, without
exception, the wildest animal I ever saw,—a fiery, sputtering little
bolt of life, luxuriating in quick oxygen and the woods’ best juices.
One can hardly think of such a creature being dependent, like the rest
of us, on climate and food. But, after all, it requires no long
acquaintance to learn he is human, for he works for a living. His
busiest time is in the Indian summer. Then he gathers burs and
hazel-nuts like a plodding farmer, working continuously every day for
hours; saying not a word; cutting off the ripe cones at the top of his
speed, as if employed by the job, and examining every branch in regular
order, as if careful that not one should escape him; then, descending,
he stores them away beneath logs and stumps, in anticipation of the
pinching hunger days of winter. He seems himself a kind of coniferous
fruit,—both fruit and flower. The resiny essences of the pines pervade
every pore of his body, and eating his flesh is like chewing gum.
One never tires of this bright chip of nature,—this brave little voice
crying in the wilderness,—of observing his many works and ways, and
listening to his curious language. His musical, piny gossip is as
savory to the ear as balsam to the palate; and, though he has not
exactly the gift of song, some of his notes are as sweet as those of a
linnet—almost flute-like in softness, while others prick and tingle
like thistles. He is the mocking-bird of squirrels, pouring forth mixed
chatter and song like a perennial fountain; barking like a dog,
screaming like a hawk, chirping like a blackbird or a sparrow; while in
bluff, audacious noisiness he is a very jay.
[Illustration: TRACK OF DOUGLAS SQUIRREL ONCE DOWN AND UP A PINE-TREE
WHEN SHOWING OFF TO A SPECTATOR.]
In descending the trunk of a tree with the intention of alighting on
the ground, he preserves a cautious silence, mindful, perhaps, of foxes
and wildcats; but while rocking safely at home in the pine-tops there
is no end to his capers and noise; and woe to the gray squirrel or
chipmunk that ventures to set foot on his favorite tree! No matter how
slyly they trace the furrows of the bark, they are speedily discovered,
and kicked down-stairs with comic vehemence, while a torrent of angry
notes comes rushing from his whiskered lips that sounds remarkably like
swearing. He will even attempt at times to drive away dogs and men,
especially if he has had no previous knowledge of them. Seeing a man
for the first time, he approaches nearer and nearer, until within a few
feet; then, with an angry outburst, he makes a sudden rush, all teeth
and eyes, as if about to eat you up. But, finding that the big, forked
animal doesn’t scare, he prudently beats a retreat, and sets himself up
to reconnoiter on some overhanging branch, scrutinizing every movement
you make with ludicrous solemnity. Gathering courage, he ventures down
the trunk again, churring and chirping, and jerking nervously up and
down in curious loops, eyeing you all the time, as if snowing off and
demanding your admiration. Finally, growing calmer, he settles down in
a comfortable posture on some horizontal branch commanding a good view,
and beats time with his tail to a steady “Chee-up! chee-up!” or, when
somewhat less excited, “Pee-ah!” with the first syllable keenly
accented, and the second drawn out like the scream of a hawk,—repeating
this slowly and more emphatically at first, then gradually faster,
until a rate of about 150 words a minute is reached; usually sitting
all the time on his haunches, with paws resting on his breast, which
pulses visibly with each word. It is remarkable, too, that, though
articulating distinctly, he keeps his mouth shut most of the time, and
speaks through his nose. I have occasionally observed him even eating
Sequoia seeds and nibbling a troublesome flea, without ceasing or in
any way confusing his “Pee-ah! pee-ah!” for a single moment.
While ascending trees all his claws come into play, but in descending
the weight of his body is sustained chiefly by those of the hind feet;
still in neither case do his movements suggest effort, though if you
are near enough you may see the bulging strength of his short,
bear-like arms, and note his sinewy fists clinched in the bark.
Whether going up or down, he carries his tail extended at full length
in line with his body, unless it be required for gestures. But while
running along horizontal limbs or fallen trunks, it is frequently
folded forward over the back, with the airy tip daintily upcurled. In
cool weather it keeps him warm. Then, after he has finished his meal,
you may see him crouched close on some level limb with his tail-robe
neatly spread and reaching forward to his ears, the electric,
outstanding hairs quivering in the breeze like pine-needles. But in wet
or very cold weather he stays in his nest, and while curled up there
his comforter is long enough to come forward around his nose. It is
seldom so cold, however, as to prevent his going out to his stores when
hungry.
Once as I lay storm-bound on the upper edge of the timber line on Mount
Shasta, the thermometer nearly at zero and the sky thick with driving
snow, a Douglas came bravely out several times from one of the lower
hollows of a Dwarf Pine near my camp, faced the wind without seeming to
feel it much, frisked lightly about over the mealy snow, and dug his
way down to some hidden seeds with wonderful precision, as if to his
eyes the thick snow-covering were glass.
No other of the Sierra animals of my acquaintance is better fed, not
even the deer, amid abundance of sweet herbs and shrubs, or the
mountain sheep, or omnivorous bears. His food consists of grass-seeds,
berries, hazel-nuts, chinquapins, and the nuts and seeds of all the
coniferous trees without exception,—Pine, Fir, Spruce, Libocedrus,
Juniper, and Sequoia,—he is fond of them all, and they all agree with
him, green or ripe. No cone is too large for him to manage, none so
small as to be beneath his notice. The smaller ones, such as those of
the Hemlock, and the Douglas Spruce, and the Two-leaved Pine, he cuts
off and eats on a branch of the tree, without allowing them to fall;
beginning at the bottom of the cone and cutting away the scales to
expose the seeds; not gnawing by guess, like a bear, but turning them
round and round in regular order, in compliance with their spiral
arrangement.
When thus employed, his location in the tree is betrayed by a dribble
of scales, shells, and seed-wings, and, every few minutes, by the fall
of the stripped axis of the cone. Then of course he is ready for
another, and if you are watching you may catch a glimpse of him as he
glides silently out to the end of a branch and see him examining the
cone-clusters until he finds one to his mind; then, leaning over, pull
back the springy needles out of his way, grasp the cone with his paws
to prevent its falling, snip it off in an incredibly short time, seize
it with jaws grotesquely stretched, and return to his chosen seat near
the trunk. But the immense size of the cones of the Sugar Pine—from
fifteen to twenty inches in length—and those of the Jeffrey variety of
the Yellow Pine compel him to adopt a quite different method. He cuts
them off without attempting to hold them, then goes down and drags them
from where they have chanced to fall up to the bare, swelling ground
around the instep of the tree, where he demolishes them in the same
methodical way, beginning at the bottom and following the scale-spirals
to the top.
[Illustration: SEEDS, WINGS, AND SCALE OF SUGAR PINE. (NAT. SIZE.)]
From a single Sugar Pine cone he gets from two to four hundred seeds
about half the size of a hazel-nut, so that in a few minutes he can
procure enough to last a week. He seems, however, to prefer those of
the two Silver First above all others; perhaps because they are most
easily obtained, as the scales drop off when ripe without needing to be
cut. Both species are filled with an exceedingly pungent, aromatic oil,
which spices all his flesh, and is of itself sufficient to account for
his lightning energy.
You may easily know this little workman by his chips. On sunny
hillsides around the principal trees they lie in big piles,—bushels and
basketfuls of them, all fresh and clean, making the most beautiful
kitchen-middens imaginable. The brown and yellow scales and nut-shells
are as abundant and as delicately penciled and tinted as the shells
along the sea-shore; while the beautiful red and purple seed-wings
mingled with them would lead one to fancy that innumerable butterflies
had there met their fate.
He feasts on all the species long before they are ripe, but is wise
enough to wait until they are matured before he gathers them into his
barns. This is in October and November, which with him are the two
busiest months of the year. All kinds of burs, big and little, are now
cut off and showered down alike, and the ground is speedily covered
with them. A constant thudding and bumping is kept up; some of the
larger cones chancing to fall on old logs make the forest reëcho with
the sound. Other nut-eaters less industrious know well what is going
on, and hasten to carry away the cones as they fall. But however busy
the harvester may be, he is not slow to descry the pilferers below, and
instantly leaves his work to drive them away. The little striped tamias
is a thorn in his flesh, stealing persistently, punish him as he may.
The large Gray Squirrel gives trouble also, although the Douglas has
been accused of stealing from him. Generally, however, just the
opposite is the case.
The excellence of the Sierra evergreens is well known to nurserymen
throughout the world, consequently there is considerable demand for the
seeds. The greater portion of the supply has hitherto been procured by
chopping down the trees in the more accessible sections of the forest
alongside of bridle-paths that cross the range. Sequoia seeds at first
brought from twenty to thirty dollars per pound, and therefore were
eagerly sought after. Some of the smaller fruitful trees were cut down
in the groves not protected by government, especially those of Fresno
and King’s River. Most of the Sequoias, however, are of so gigantic a
size that the seedsmen have to look for the greater portion of their
supplies to the Douglas, who soon learns he is no match for these
freebooters. He is wise enough, however, to cease working the instant
he perceives them, and never fails to embrace every opportunity to
recover his burs whenever they happen to be stored in any place
accessible to him, and the busy seedsman often finds on returning to
camp that the little Douglas has exhaustively spoiled the spoiler. I
know one seed-gatherer who, whenever he robs the squirrels, scatters
wheat or barley beneath the trees as conscience-money.
The want of appreciable life remarked by so many travelers in the
Sierra forests is never felt at this time of year. Banish all the
humming insects and the birds and quadrupeds, leaving only Sir Douglas,
and the most solitary of our so-called solitudes would still throb with
ardent life. But if you should go impatiently even into the most
populous of the groves on purpose to meet him, and walk about looking
up among the branches, you would see very little of him. But lie down
at the foot of one of the trees and straightway he will come. For, in
the midst of the ordinary forest sounds, the falling of burs, piping of
quails, the screaming of the Clark Crow, and the rustling of deer and
bears among the chaparral, he is quick to detect your strange
footsteps, and will hasten to make a good, close inspection of you as
soon as you are still. First, you may hear him sounding a few notes of
curious inquiry, but more likely the first intimation of his approach
will be the prickly sounds of his feet as he descends the tree
overhead, just before he makes his savage onrush to frighten you and
proclaim your presence to every squirrel and bird in the neighborhood.
If you remain perfectly motionless, he will come nearer and nearer, and
probably set your flesh a-tingle by frisking across your body. Once,
while I was seated at the foot of a Hemlock Spruce in one of the most
inaccessible of the San Joaquin yosemites engaged in sketching, a
reckless fellow came up behind me, passed under my bended arm, and
jumped on my paper. And one warm afternoon, while an old friend of mine
was reading out in the shade of his cabin, one of his Douglas neighbors
jumped from the gable upon his head, and then with admirable assurance
ran down over his shoulder and on to the book he held in his hand.
Our Douglas enjoys a large social circle; for, besides his numerous
relatives, _Sciurus fossor, Tamias quadrivitatus, T. Townsendii,
Spermophilus Beccheyi, S. Douglasii_, he maintains intimate relations
with the nut-eating birds, particularly the Clark Crow (_Picicorvus
columbianus_) and the numerous woodpeckers and jays. The two
spermophiles are astonishingly abundant in the lowlands and lower
foot-hills, but more and more sparingly distributed up through the
Douglas domains,—seldom venturing higher than six or seven thousand
feet above the level of the sea. The gray sciurus ranges but little
higher than this. The little striped tamias alone is associated with
him everywhere. In the lower and middle zones, where they all meet,
they are tolerably harmonious—a happy family, though very amusing
skirmishes may occasionally be witnessed. Wherever the ancient glaciers
have spread forest soil there you find our wee hero, most abundant
where depth of soil and genial climate have given rise to a
corresponding luxuriance in the trees, but following every kind of
growth up the curving moraines to the highest glacial fountains.
Though I cannot of course expect all my readers to sympathize fully in
my admiration of this little animal, few, I hope, will think this
sketch of his life too long. I cannot begin to tell here how much he
has cheered my lonely wanderings during all the years I have been
pursuing my studies in these glorious wilds; or how much unmistakable
humanity I have found in him. Take this for example: One calm, creamy
Indian summer morning, when the nuts were ripe, I was camped in the
upper pine-woods of the south fork of the San Joaquin, where the
squirrels seemed to be about as plentiful as the ripe burs. They were
taking an early breakfast before going to their regular harvest-work.
While I was busy with my own breakfast I heard the thudding fall of two
or three heavy cones from a Yellow Pine near me. I stole noiselessly
forward within about twenty feet of the base of it to observe. In a few
moments down came the Douglas. The breakfast-burs he had cut off had
rolled on the gently sloping ground into a clump of ceanothus bushes,
but he seemed to know exactly where they were, for he found them at
once, apparently without searching for them. They were more than twice
as heavy as himself, but after turning them into the right position for
getting a good hold with his long sickle-teeth he managed to drag them
up to the foot of the tree from which he had cut them, moving backward.
Then seating himself comfortably, he held them on end, bottom up, and
demolished them at his ease. A good deal of nibbling had to be done
before he got anything to eat, because the lower scales are barren, but
when he had patiently worked his way up to the fertile ones he found
two sweet nuts at the base of each, shaped like trimmed hams, and
spotted purple like birds’ eggs. And notwithstanding these cones were
dripping with soft balsam, and covered with prickles, and so strongly
put together that a boy would be puzzled to cut them open with a
jack-knife, he accomplished his meal with easy dignity and cleanliness,
making less effort apparently than a man would in eating soft cookery
from a plate.
Breakfast done, I whistled a tune for him before he went to work,
curious to see how he would be affected by it. He had not seen me all
this while; but the instant I began to whistle he darted up the tree
nearest to him, and came out on a small dead limb opposite me, and
composed himself to listen. I sang and whistled more than a dozen airs,
and as the music changed his eyes sparkled, and he turned his head
quickly from side to side, but made no other response. Other squirrels,
hearing the strange sounds, came around on all sides, also chipmunks
and birds. One of the birds, a handsome, speckle-breasted thrush,
seemed even more interested than the squirrels. After listening for
awhile on one of the lower dead sprays of a pine, he came swooping
forward within a few feet of my face, and remained fluttering in the
air for half a minute or so, sustaining himself with whirring
wing-beats, like a humming-bird in front of a flower, while I could
look into his eyes and see his innocent wonder.
By this time my performance must have lasted nearly half an hour. I
sang or whistled “Bonnie Boon,” “Lass o’ Gowrie,” “O’er the Water to
Charlie,” “Bonnie Woods o’ Cragie Lee,” etc., all of which seemed to be
listened to with bright interest, my first Douglas sitting patiently
through it all, with his telling eyes fixed upon me until I ventured to
give the “Old Hundredth,” when he screamed his Indian name,
Pillillooeet, turned tail, and darted with ludicrous haste up the tree
out of sight, his voice and actions in the case leaving a somewhat
profane impression, as if he had said, “I’ll be hanged if you get me to
hear anything so solemn and unpiny.” This acted as a signal for the
general dispersal of the whole hairy tribe, though the birds seemed
willing to wait further developments, music being naturally more in
their line.
What there can be in that grand old church-tune that is so offensive to
birds and squirrels I can’t imagine. A year or two after this High
Sierra concert, I was sitting one fine day on a hill in the Coast Range
where the common Ground Squirrels were abundant. They were very shy on
account of being hunted so much; but after I had been silent and
motionless for half an hour or so they began to venture out of their
holes and to feed on the seeds of the grasses and thistles around me as
if I were no more to be feared than a tree-stump. Then it occurred to
me that this was a good opportunity to find out whether they also
disliked “Old Hundredth.” Therefore I began to whistle as nearly as I
could remember the same familiar airs that had pleased the mountaineers
of the Sierra. They at once stopped eating, stood erect, and listened
patiently until I came to “Old Hundredth,” when with ludicrous haste
every one of them rushed to their holes and bolted in, their feet
twinkling in the air for a moment as they vanished.
No one who makes the acquaintance of our forester will fail to admire
him; but he is far too self-reliant and warlike ever to be taken for a
darling.
How long the life of a Douglas Squirrel may be, I don’t know. The young
seem to sprout from knot-holes, perfect from the first, and as enduring
as their own trees. It is difficult, indeed, to realize that so
condensed a piece of sun-fire should ever become dim or die at all. He
is seldom killed by hunters, for he is too small to encourage much of
their attention, and when pursued in settled regions becomes
excessively shy, and keeps close in the furrows of the highest trunks,
many of which are of the same color as himself. Indian boys, however,
lie in wait with unbounded patience to shoot them with arrows. In the
lower and middle zones a few fall a prey to rattlesnakes. Occasionally
he is pursued by hawks and wildcats, etc. But, upon the whole, he
dwells safely in the deep bosom of the woods, the most highly favored
of all his happy tribe. May his tribe increase!
[Illustration: TRYING THE BOW.]