CHAPTER IX 



The Tragedy of the Flying Squirrels 



There has always been something 

 more or less pathetic to me in the pass- 

 ing of big black oaks. They do not 

 belong to a long-lived family. A fine 

 specimen once stood down near the 

 foot-bridge just below the dam, and 

 when I first knew it old age was slowly 

 but surely creeping over it. The once 

 handsome, wide-spreading top was no 

 longer proudly carried nor symmetri- 

 cal. Dead branches announced impend- 

 ing dissolution. Forest sclerosis had 

 clearly set in. It was hollow, too, at 

 the base, and many a hard-pressed little 

 creature of the wild had here found 

 safe sanctuary from hot pursuit. It 

 was in this aging monarch of the grove 

 that I first saw the happy pair of which 

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