CHAPTER VII

MORE ABOUT SQUIRRIE

“Why, Squirrie is the mischief-maker of the neighborhood,” I said.

“He is indeed, and I would not advise you to cultivate him. He would be sure to get you into trouble.”

“What did he do to the grandfather?” I asked.

“Caused him to commit sin by beating an innocent dog,” said Chummy solemnly.

“Who was the dog?” I asked.

“Pluto was his name, but we all called him Cross-Patch, because he had a snarly temper. He was a good dog, though, for he tried so hard to overcome his faults. He had been a thief, but Grandfather had reasoned with him, and whipped him, till at last he was a perfectly honest dog—but he got a bad beating that Christmas.”

“Who was Grandfather?” I asked.

“Grandfather was a nice foreign man who lived in a little house round the corner. He had made some money in selling old clothes, and he was bringing up his daughter’s children. At Christmas time he had saved enough money to buy a nice tree for his grandchildren. He stayed up late Christmas eve to trim the tree, and Cross-Patch watched him. The blinds were up and another red squirrel called Chickari, who was a tremendous climber, told me that he watched the old man too, and it was pretty to see him hanging little bags of candy and candles and strings of popcorn on the branches.

“When he got through, he said, ‘Now, doggie, don’t you touch anything, and when the children strip the tree in the morning, you shall have your share of good things.’

“Cross-Patch wagged his tail. He had had a good supper, and was not hungry, and then he was a reformed dog.

“Unfortunately the old man, in trotting to and fro from the kitchen to the dining-room, where the tree was, forgot to bring Cross-Patch out, and he had to sleep in the room with the tree. Of course he touched nothing, but didn’t that scamp of a squirrel get in through some hole or corner.”

“What were those squirrels doing out on a winter night?” I asked.

“Red squirrels don’t sleep like logs through the winter, as some squirrels do,” said Chummy. “Chickari was prowling because his supplies had run low. Squirrie was out for mischief. He has a long head and always lays up enough and more than enough. Perhaps he felt the Christmas stir in the air. Anyway, he got into this old rickety cottage and ran up and down the Christmas tree, as if he were crazy, but he scarcely touched anything at the top. Just to tease Cross-Patch he nibbled and bit and tore at everything on the lower limbs.”

“Why didn’t Cross-Patch chase him?” I said indignantly.

“He did, but what can a dog do with a lively squirrel? Besides Cross-Patch could not see very well, although there was a moon shining in the room. He is getting old. However, he became so angry that at last he made a splendid leap in the air, and caught the tip end of Squirrie’s tail which is like a fine bushy flag. He got a mouthful of hair, and the tail did not look so fine afterward.

“Just when the noise was at its worst, Grandfather woke up and came in. Of course, Squirrie hid, and there stood Cross-Patch trembling in every limb, his sorry eyes going to the torn candy bags and popcorn strewed over the floor.

“‘So—you are a backslider,’ said the old man. ‘Well, you have robbed my children, and I shall have to beat you.’ He was a patient old man, but now he was angry, and Cross-Patch was getting some good whacks and stripes from a rope end, when he began to choke over the squirrel fur in his mouth.

“The old man stopped beating, stared at him, and took the little bunch of fur that Cross-Patch spat out, and examined it. Then he dropped his rope and went to the tree.

“His face fell, and he looked sad. ‘Punish first, and examine afterward,’ he said. ‘How many persons do that with children. Why did I not observe that a dog could not have so despoiled this little tree without knocking it over? It is that pest of a squirrel who has been here. I might have known. Dog, I beg your pardon,’ and he shook hands quite solemnly with Cross-Patch who took on the air of a suffering martyr.”

“And what did Squirrie do?” I asked. “Was his heart touched?”

“Not a bit of it. He went home chuckling, but what do you think he found?”

“I don’t know much about squirrel ways,” I said.

“I do,” said Chummy, “and they are fine-spirited little creatures, except the few that like to suck birds’ eggs and kill young. All the sparrows liked Chickari, and after that night he was a perfect hero among us. He knew Squirrie pretty well, and was sure he would remain to gloat over his mischief, so he whipped off to his cupboard—”

“Whose cupboard?” I asked. “His own, or Squirrie’s?”

“Squirrie’s—you know the little scamp’s old home in the tree called Snug Hollow had been boarded up, and the only place in the neighborhood he had been able to get was a poor refuge up on a roof. Well, Chickari knew where it was, and he had dashed off to it, and carried away nearly all of Squirrie’s nice winter hoard before he got back. Wasn’t Squirrie furious! He danced with rage on the moonlit roof when he got home. So a sparrow who slept up there told us. The noise woke him up, and he could plainly see Squirrie scampering, leaping, chattering—nose now up, now down, his four legs digging the snow, his tail wig-wagging! Oh, he was in a rage! He had to go south for the rest of the winter, but he came back in the spring, more wicked than ever, for it was in the following June that he became a murderer.”

“A murderer!” I said in a horrified tone.

“Yes—I will tell you about it, if you are not tired of my chirping.”

“No, no—I just love to hear you,” I said warmly.