A TREE-TOP AERONAUT 167 



livery in the brown Canadian forests that his 

 ancestors would never have survived to 

 produce him had they not managed to change 

 that livery in time to baffle their foes. 



The flying-squirrel, unlike the impudent 

 and irrepressible red squirrel, had a great 

 capacity for patience, as well as for prudence. 

 Moreover, he had no great liking for activity 

 as long as the sun was up, his enormous eyes 

 adapting him for the dim life of the night. 

 For some minutes after the sound of foot- 

 steps had died away in the distance, he lay 

 unstirring on his branch, his ears alert to the 

 tiniest forest whisper, his nostrils quivering 

 as they interrogated every subtlest forest 

 scent. All at once his wide eyes grew even 

 wider, and a sort of spasm of apprehension 

 flitted across their liquid depths. What was 

 that faint, dry, rustling sound the mere 

 ghost of a whisper on the bark of the trunk 

 behind him ? Nervously he turned his head. 

 There was nothing in sight, but the ghostly 

 sound continued, so slight, so thin, that even 

 his fine ear could hardly be sure of its reality. 



The little watcher remained moveless as a 

 knot on the bark. The creeping whisper 

 softly mounted the tree. Then at last a 

 flat, brownish-black, vicious head came into 

 view around the trunk, and arrested itself, 



