BISMARCK, THE RED SQUIRREL 



duced the gray to fight. The gray was an old 

 male, certainly three times as large as the red. 

 The latter was an old male, and had held the 

 dooryard for several years against all comers. 

 He was a sagacious, grizzled old warrior, and 

 I named him Bismarck. The fight took place 

 in my dooryard. It was a bloody battle for 

 bread on a cold, drizzly day in midwinter. 

 The gray was whipped inside of three min- 

 utes. The snow was crimsoned with his blood, 

 and when he fled he left a bloody trail behind. 

 At no time was there a ghost of a chance for 

 him to win. The muscular energy of the 

 red was astounding. His movements were too 

 quick for the eye. While the fight lasted, all 

 I could see was a bounding mass of red and 

 gray. The red squirrel did not appear to be 

 severely wounded, anyway he remained out 

 in the cold and rain to lick his wounds. Per- 

 haps it was squirrel surgery to prefer the 

 cold to a warm nest. 



From my observations I find that the reds 

 seldom chase the grays, unless the latter enter 



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