210 AROUND AN OLD HOMESTEAD. 



the owner was resting on a log, and I imagine, if I had 

 followed Leatherstocking and notched my Henry for 

 every squirrel, it would now be checkered like a pistol 

 grip. 



I once bagged a squirrel with only half a tail. It 

 is very possible that I myself had been the cause of 

 his loss, for I did not hit all the squirrels I shot at, 

 and might merely have cut through his brush. It had 

 undoubtedly been shot off, but the little fellow was at 

 last to be brought low, even after that escape like 

 many a soldier who, after numerous battles, finally 

 falls, shot in the head. I recollect also killing two 

 squirrels whose stomachs were simply bursting with 

 dry, chewed nuts. Whether there had been a lack of 

 water for them, and so their food had become too 

 dry to digest, or why they were so distended, I do not 

 know, unless they had almost been starving, and had 

 suddenly come across a tree full of fruit and had 

 gorged themselves to the utmost. 



The boys could take a whole day for squirrel hunt- 

 ing in pioneer times, and never go out of the woods. 

 They had a certain plan, by which they would simply 

 saunter along from one wood lot through another until 

 they reached the bluffs of the river, there eat their 

 lunch, and then spend the afternoon on the stroll home 

 again, with perhaps a dozen squirrels to show for 

 their trip. 



I have heard some fairly good yarns about squir- 

 rels. One old man, I remember, who was nothing 

 loath to see the eyes of his nephews distend almost to 

 bursting at his tales, related to me one time a long, 

 rather rambling story of a celebrated hunt in which 



