Part 5

I soon identified many of the Squirrels and singled them out from among their fellows. One of the red Squirrels I named “Meeko,” because he was far from meek, and because it is an Indian word meaning “mischief-maker.” Another one, also a red Squirrel, was called “Bismarck.” These two were suitors for Kitchi-Kitchi’s hand. She had other admirers, of course, but the race soon narrowed down to these two.

It was Bismarck who greeted me one afternoon when I ran my canoe ashore near camp. He stood on his hind legs, on the sandy beach, barking and gesticulating furiously. When I landed, he went to a log near by and ran the whole length of it three times, barking madly meanwhile, then back to me, then to the log again. It was not until he sat up on the log and beckoned to me with his right paw that I discovered what he meant. He was asking me, as plainly as any Squirrel could, to follow him.

With every sense instantly alert, I did as he wished me to. He led me to a hole he had dug in the leaves and pointed to it, still barking. I bent over it and found a Toad, which had been bitten through the back and could not hop.

I picked up the Toad and held him in my hand, meditating upon the mutability of all earthly things, and Bismarck almost went mad with excitement. He had evidently found the strange creature and bitten it through to make it lie still until he could find me. Now he was asking me what it was and whether or not it was edible.

By signs I made Bismarck understand that it was not edible in its raw state, and that I had no inclination whatever to cook it for him. I put it back into the hole, covered it, and went off a little way. Bismarck uncovered it, bit it once more, and was immediately taken very sick. He was well satisfied to leave it alone after that, and I made a corset of splints for it, lacing it on with a bit of twine I happened to have in my pocket. This done, the Toad hopped off in a great hurry, not even staying to say “thank you.” He evidently had no desire to pit his feeble strength against Bismarck again.

At the time, this whole incident was new to me, but after reaching home, I discovered much the same thing in a new book on Natural History. The other observer had found a Lizard in the hole, instead of a Toad, and he made no corset for the injured animal—at least if he did, he did not record it, but I always record everything.

Every morning, at four o’clock, Meeko, Bismarck, and Kitchi-Kitchi would waken me by giving a dance, with quadrille calls, on the roof of my cabin. I soon formed the habit of early rising and once I was up, ready for the day’s toil, before three. In order to let them know how it seemed, I pounded with an axe on the trees where the three had their nests, and they all scampered down, very much frightened. After that, I was not disturbed until half-past five, when they insisted upon my rising, and to which, as a compromise measure, I did not in the least object.

Kitchi-Kitchi, Meeko, and Bismarck would come into my cabin several times each day to be tickled. At first I found the novelty of it rather amusing, but at length it became wearing, and I was obliged to shut the doors and windows in order to have any time to write. Even then, they would dance on the roof and pound on the window glass in a way which was exceedingly disturbing to one of my artistic temperament.

My table was near the fireplace and Kitchi-Kitchi came in one day by way of the chimney. She arrived on the fair, open page of my observation ledger, sooty, panting, but thoroughly happy, and demanded to be tickled.

After that, the others came in that way, and even when the doors and windows were wide open, they would sometimes come in by the chimney route just for the fun of the thing.

It is not generally known that the Flying Squirrel has not a monopoly of the aërial navigation business as far as mammals are concerned. His body, it is true, is especially constructed for flying. The loose skin with which his legs are connected spreads out in falling, parachute fashion. Perhaps the other Squirrels have learned this from him; perhaps they learned it independently, but it is certain that a Squirrel can fall from almost any height without apparent inconvenience. They flatten their bodies and tails against the air and sail triumphantly downward, alighting easily and scampering off unhurt.

I did not know this before, but now I saw it done repeatedly. It was one of Kitchi-Kitchi’s favourite amusements to send Meeko and Bismarck to the topmost branch of a lofty oak near by, and at her signal make them jump. The one reaching the ground first was rewarded with a nut and a playful, coquettish pat.

Like the Chipmunks, the Squirrels hide their food, though it is done differently and on a much smaller scale. The Chipmunk will hide much and all in one storehouse; the Squirrel hides very little and everything in a different place—an ear of corn in the crotch of a tree, a handful of acorns under the eaves of a barn, bits of bread between two twigs, relying on the spring of the wood to keep it in position, and nuts everywhere.

I saw a terrible quarrel once, between Bismarck and a Blue Jay who raided his bakery. When it was over, Bismarck had four pecks on his body and one peck of feathers for his nest. The Bird immediately started south, though it is not common for this species to travel in the altogether. He was naked and very much cast down—in fact, the bluest jay I ever saw.

One day I did something for Kitchi-Kitchi which won her eternal gratitude. We had gone fishing together, as we often did, and she sat upon the gunwale of my canoe, sorely tempted to rock the boat, but obedient to my expressed command not to. Presently, by gestures, she made me understand that she was thirsty. I dipped up a cup of water from the lake on which we were rowing and offered it to her, but she put it aside with disgust. So I put a little brandy from my flask into the water and offered it to her again. She was indignant and scolded me violently—her language was positively scurrilous. When we landed she still insisted that she was thirsty, and, at my wits’ end, I drew some of the sap from a tree for her and offered it to her in the cup.

She drank every drop and whisked about madly to express her joy. She nibbled at my ears and put her cool nose into my neck, then tried to tickle me under the chin with her paw, making a noise, meanwhile, that sounded like “Kitchi-Kitchi.” It was unpleasant, but I understood the spirit of it and forgave the means.

The same afternoon, she led her admirers a pretty chase. Fleet as they were, Kitchi-Kitchi was more fleet. Nothing except Atalanta or an automobile gone wild could run as she did that afternoon. I had previously wished I knew the Squirrel language, and now I saw that in order to converse intelligently with Kitchi-Kitchi, I must learn Russian. Finally, in a bacchanalian frenzy of action, she ran to the top of a lofty oak and prepared to jump to the next, folding her tail daintily about her as a fine lady does her skirts at a muddy crossing.

Meeko screamed in terror and Bismarck fainted, but Kitchi-Kitchi made the jump safely with several inches to spare. After that, whenever she wanted to bring them to terms, she took the high jump. The scheme always worked, but it was a terrible leap, even for a Flying Squirrel,—fully twenty feet,—and Kitchi-Kitchi had no wings except her youthful spirits and her bounding energy. Many a time have I seen her upon a lofty branch, swinging by one hand, and waving the other at Meeko in a tree close by. He was fain to follow her, but she was always about four trees ahead.

Never have I seen the sweet influence of woman more beautifully exemplified. When she was with them, Bismarck and Meeko treated one another like long-lost brothers. The three took many a promenade together, arm in arm, Kitchi-Kitchi folding her tail over the hollow of her elbow as though it were a train. When she went away for her afternoon nap, or to gather some choice morsels for her evening meal, they invariably fought.

I kept court-plaster and bandages on hand to repair the damage that was always done on such occasions, and Kitchi-Kitchi never appeared to notice it except once. When Bismarck called upon her with a blood-stained bandage tied over one eye, she shrieked and kicked him outdoors. He fell to the ground like a dead weight, I suppose because his heart was so heavy—but fortunately was not injured further. Meeko had her to himself for a week after that, then Bismarck, the bandage gone, resumed his place at her side and upheld his right to it in many a scrimmage.

The two vied with each other in bringing dainties to tempt her appetite. Robins’ eggs, with the top part of the shell removed, all ready for sucking, mushrooms, nuts, berries, apple seeds, pop-corn, and the thousand other choice bits her educated palate was accustomed to, were laid at the door of her nest, high in the branches. It was Meeko who accidentally brought her a poisonous mushroom which made her so ill that for days her life was despaired of. She forgave him, however, and used to sit in the sun, very thin and pale, with two devoted attendants to wait upon her.

Naturalists who think that Squirrels eat Birds are very much mistaken. I have seen Meeko pounce on a wayfaring Bird hundreds of times, but curiosity has always been the motive. They will not eat Bird unless it is properly cooked. I know, for I have tried them with bits of a raw Crow, that had died from natural causes. The fact that Birds are not afraid of Squirrels triumphantly proves my theory, in spite of the fact that the eggs are occasionally taken out of the nest. Whenever a Squirrel has visited a Bird’s nest, after the young were hatched, curiosity and friendly interest in the welfare of the young have been the sole reasons in every case.

Meantime, my fame as a tickler had spread abroad, and I used to give up hours to it each day. I might better have spent the time in writing, but it was so noisy that I could not write, except to make hasty notes in my note-book, and I was there to study Natural History. An old grey Squirrel from the next county brought her entire family of young for me to tickle, and when I refused, she bit one of my ears until the blood came in a bright red stream. Bismarck drove her away and Kitchi-Kitchi stanched the bleeding with a bit of Rabbit fur she brought from the woods for the purpose.

Kitchi-Kitchi was devotedly attached to me. She would stop eating a nut any time to scamper down the tree-trunk and perch upon my arm or shoulder. She would sit upon my shoulder while I performed my manifold household duties, and would occasionally precede the broom, sweeping the floor with her tail. She would stay in my cabin long after I had told her to go home, and when I put her out, she would return by way of the window or chimney, cross the room, climb me, and put her head down between my collar and neck, barking meanwhile unless I spoke to her, stroked her, or tickled her. It used to give me an uncanny feeling when she ran up my spine while I was writing in my ledger—in other words, the climate disagreed with me.

It fell to my lot this Summer to hear a Squirrel singing a duet with itself. It sounds as though the voice were split, the high part coming through the nose, and the low tones through the throat. It is always a lively tune, perfectly rhythmical, interspersed with gales and gusts and cyclones of very human laughter. It is not generally known that Squirrels sing, but Little Brothers of the Woods can find out a great deal if they only give their minds to it and buy plenty of books.

At length, I missed Kitchi-Kitchi, and my heart grew sick with foreboding. I feared lest one of those terrible tragedies of the woods had taken place and my little friend’s life had thus been sacrificed. The end of a wild animal is always a tragedy—the pitiless law of the wilderness, supported by claw and tooth and fang, has so ordained.

Meeko and Bismarck were as usual, except that they carried a great many nuts and mushrooms up one particular tree. Determined to find out, I climbed, and there on her nest, pale and worn with the long vigil, but still cheerful, sat Kitchi-Kitchi.

She would not let me lift her, protesting loudly when I tried it, but when I tickled her in the ribs she moved enough to give me a glimpse of the eggs under her. Very few observers have ever seen a Squirrel’s egg. They are about the size of a Turkey’s egg, a dark brown in colour, with a long, handle-like projection, fully as long as the egg itself, at the wider end. This undoubtedly holds the tail of the baby Squirrel.

Six weeks later she came down—a mere shadow of her former self. In three weeks more, the babies were able to come also, and they made a pretty group, playing in my dooryard and falling over themselves at every step, not yet having learned how to manage their tails. I would have tickled them, gladly, but I already had my hands full and I did not wish the new generation to acquire the habit.

Things went on as usual until late in the Fall. Summer lingered long that year, and the woods were a golden glory almost until November, but the Birds had gone and the Squirrels were making ready to follow.

One morning there was a great chattering, and I was so sure that preparations for departure had begun that I gave up my work entirely and went out to investigate. A few moments of close, quiet observation proved my hasty surmise correct.

From every conceivable corner were brought large, flat chips. They were fully six inches square and much worn, as if they had been used often. A depression in the centre was the only variation from the flat surface.

Such a time as there was! The woods seemed to be one solid Squirrel in multitudinous attitudes. The scene would have been very perplexing to any but a perfectly sober man, and at intervals I even doubted the evidence of my own senses.

The older and larger Squirrels dragged all the chips to the brink of the river, which flowed from north to south, and then, at last, I began to understand. So poor are our weak wits in comparison with the denizens of wood and field, whom, in our pitiable self-conceit, we call “the lower animals.” A Squirrel is normally a much higher animal than any of us, excepting only the tree-dwellers on the Orinoco.

Some of the chips were fastened together with strands of wild-grape vine, and were heavily laden with nuts and corn. Others were passenger boats and sailed proudly alone. The young ones were put on the chips before they were launched, and screamed in terror as the little craft slid into the current.

The commissary fleet, in charge of an old grey Squirrel, who was perfectly calm, was launched first, then the chips bearing the small fry. The passenger boats were last to go, and the travellers swam out into the stream to catch them. One grey Squirrel missed his boat entirely and was drowned. It came ashore four miles farther down and I still have it among my most-prized possessions.

As long as I live, I shall never forget that sight. The day was glorious, with never a hint of frost in the air, and the woods, strangely silent, now that the Little People were gone, echoed and re-echoed when a nut dropped on the fallen leaves.

Down the stream sailed the Squirrel fleet—brave little mariners, these, with tails proudly spread to catch each favouring wind. Bismarck did a wonder of navigation, tacking repeatedly and coming up beside Kitchi-Kitchi under full sail. Meeko was stationed at her other side and his boat went at exactly the same speed as hers. Close together, as married lovers down the stream of life, the three sailed, with the family of young ones on a large chip just ahead, where the anxious mother could keep an eye upon them.

I stood watching for over an hour. The current was swift and bore them away all too soon, but with my powerful field-glass I kept them in sight until the tears blinded me and I had to wipe my eyes.

The only way to make an animal’s story untragic is to finish before you reach the end, so I shall leave them here—that little company of fur-clad, bright-eyed captains, making the long journey southward before the frost should come. Far down the stream was a bend, where the fleet turned, and even with the field-glass I could not see around a corner, so with one last lingering look and a deep sigh, I gave it up.

But a glimmer caught my eye, and, trembling with excitement, I raised my glass once more, fixing it upon the bend of the river, where the last boat was just rounding the curve.

Was it fancy, or did Kitchi-Kitchi stand up, wave her hand at me, and across the boundless waste of waters that lay between us, send me a parting smile?

JIM CROW

I always called him that because he was so dark and because I have no race prejudice whatever. People used to allude to him as my Crow, but the real truth lay much deeper than that. If there was any idea of possession in our somewhat singular relationship, I was Jim’s—he was not in the least mine.

He adopted me one day at sight. I was walking through a pasture about fourteen miles from my cabin, when I saw Jim sitting upon a rail fence. He did not move at my approach, and I thought he must be a stuffed animal, put out to dry by some taxidermist in the neighbourhood. I walked up to him and, at length, stroked his head gently. At this, he opened his eyes, yawned, and with a sleepy “_Caw-w-w-w_,” perched upon my shoulder and so rode home with me, in spite of my protests.

To this day I have never been able to solve the mystery. I examined him carefully for signs of damage, but to all intents and purposes he was sound in wind and limb, free from pink-eye, string-halt, or glanders, and not afraid of automobile or steam roller.

He ate plentifully of the simple meal I cooked over my camp-fire, and, while I washed the dishes, followed me around like a devoted dog. I suppose he must have recognised me as a Little Brother of the Woods—at any rate, he stuck to me closer than a brother while our strange attachment lasted.

When I perceived that Jim had no intention of leaving the cabin, I went outside, shook him off my shoulder, and ran back, closing the door gently but firmly. Imagine my surprise to hear a loud, jubilant “Caw!” from the rafters. Jim had anticipated me, and had flown in—when, I did not know. Three times this was repeated. At last, I thrust my head and shoulders through the window and remained there some time, enjoying the landscape and the Summer moonlight. Jim, still on my coat collar, finally went to sleep, and this time I easily dislodged him, then quickly closed the window with a triumphant bang.

Outside, everything was suspiciously still, and I began to wonder whether or not Jim had taken offence and left me for good. I was still meditating when there was a crash of glass, and Jim, having broken the window, joined me with every evidence of pleasure. I saw plainly that I must make the best of a bad bargain for the night, and the next day, or as soon as possible, put crowbars on all the windows of the cabin.

I retired, but not to sleep. Jim followed me into my cot, stretched himself full length on my pillow, and put his cold, clammy feet on my cheek. When I moved, Jim flopped. When I turned over, burying my face in the pillow, Jim sat on my head, scratching constantly. I tried to put a bit of the sheet between us, but it was useless. Presently, Jim slept, as his snoring unmistakably proclaimed, but as soon as I moved, he woke and resentfully pecked at my face.

So I lay there, miserably enough, until dawn. Jim woke of his own accord, took away his feet, which were warm by this time, yawned, stretched himself, and demanded breakfast. I took my time about preparing the meal, but Jim made such a racket with his caws of complaint that I determined to be more prompt in future.

That day I barred up all the windows, and at night, after two hours of strategy that would have done credit to the commanding general of an army, I found myself in the cabin, with doors and windows locked, and Jim on the outside.

He tried all the windows, but my barriers held. It was suffocatingly close in the cabin, but I knew that the chimney would furnish a draft and keep me from being poisoned by the impure air. Then a terrible thought struck me—suppose Jim should come in by the chimney route, as Kitchi-Kitchi and her friends were wont to do, and, sooty though he was, insist upon sleeping with me!

This did not occur to him, however, or perhaps he knew a better way. He made night so unspeakably hideous with his loud and vociferous calling, his vicious pecks at the glass, and the beating of his wings against the door, that at last, in sheer desperation, I got up and let him in.

I slept the sleep of utter exhaustion that night—with Jim’s feet on my cheek. As the weeks went by, I got used to it, though it was never pleasant. We can get used to almost anything, if we have to.

I tried to find consolation in Jim’s cunning tricks, of which he had a great many. A Crow is about the most intelligent wild beast I have ever come across, and, after study, becomes fascinating. It added a pleasantly human element to my solitude in the wilderness, for Jim was as unexpected, as unreasonable, and as incomprehensible as a woman.

When I planted my garden, he watched me, and afterward he dug up the seeds and ate them. By way of atonement, he brought me some crocus bulbs from somebody’s else garden. I was never able to find out where they came from and so I could not return them.

He made deep excavations into my potato hills and ate the eyes out of the potatoes, passing by the Bugs, which I could never induce him to touch. He would eat the Worms I gathered to go fishing with, and afterward would caw repeatedly, with bated breath. Mosquitoes, Flies, Potato-Bugs—all these he disdained, but he would eat anything which he could eat without being of indirect use to anybody. I discovered later that after he had gorged himself with the eyes of the potatoes, so that he could not hold so much as another eyelash, he would keep on digging until he was exhausted, merely to make a nuisance of himself.

I stretched a white cotton string across my dooryard, between two trees, and taught Jim to jump over it, turning a double somersault in mid-air. Some choice tidbit rewarded him for this, and he got so that whenever he was hungry, between meals, he would run up to an imaginary string, take the flying leap, turning the double somersault before he touched ground again, and walk up to me, cawing loudly with pleasure in his performance. I always praised him, and sometimes stroked his head or back, whereupon he would demand the tidbit, which was generally forthcoming. Sometimes it was a bit of raw bacon, a small dish of pork and beans, or a cold pancake, liberally sweetened with molasses.

On one of these occasions, Jim broke his leg. While turning the somersault he missed his calculation by a hair’s-breadth, and caught a claw on the string, which happened to be a little heavier than usual. He fell heavily to the ground with a yell of pain which brought me instantly to his side, but he would not let me touch him. Whenever I reached forth my hand, he gave a cry of alarm which warned me very effectually to keep away.

Half flying, half walking on the other foot, he made his way to the river bank, where he took some soft clay from the edge of the water and with his bill made a little mound of it. Then, by the same methods of locomotion, he went away a short distance and gathered some grass of a particularly tough variety. All the time he was seemingly oblivious of me, though I was close by and, as the reader may well imagine, watching him intently.