28 THE RING OF NATURE 



with circles and long shafts almost as bright as 

 beech leaves. 



Further on, the trees change to pine. The sun 

 splashes their red trunks with flame, and even 

 brings colour into the burnt-out floor. Walking 

 on the dead and silent needles, I check automati- 

 cally as something warmer and hairier than vege- 

 table debris catches the eye. It is the long, dry 

 hair that feathers a squirrel's tail. The little animal 

 has its back to me, and is busy digging in the soft 

 super-mold, working briskly with its fore-paws, his 

 nose all the while between them to seize the prize 

 as soon as it comes in sight. 



It fishes out something, perhaps no more than 

 a half-decayed fir-cone, and sitting up with the 

 morsel held in its hands, sets to work with its teeth. 

 Over the bushy tail I can see the long winter tufts 

 of its ears twitching and nodding at the work 

 of the jaws. Creeping silently round I catch the 

 profile of its face, with one of the bright black eyes 

 that seem to look out on all sides at once. 



It is the conventional squirrel picture. The tail 

 is up parallel with the back, but curled away from 

 the head like an acanthus leaf. The tufted ears 

 point straight up from the smooth-haired face, the 

 Roman nose of which ends in sharp chisels busy on 

 the cone, which the fore-feet hold close beneath 

 the chin. All is according to convention except 

 the colouring, for we have very few animal artists 

 who can refrain from drawing the squirrel in a 

 mixed dress of summer and winter. The red 



