Like a boy, the Black Squirrel 

 delights in the new-fallen snow 

 — like a real boy, with red hands 

 as well as red cheeks, and an 

 automatic mechanism of bones 

 and muscles capable of all things except rest. 

 The first snow sends a thrill of joy through every fibre 

 of such a boy, and a thousand delights crowd into his 

 mind* The gliding, falling coasters on the hills, the 

 passing sleighs with nitches on the runners for his 

 feet, the flying snowballs, the sliding places, the 

 broad, tempting ice, all whirl through his mind in a 

 delightful panorama, and he hurries out to catch the 

 elusive flakes in his outstretched hands and shout 

 aloud in the gladness of his heart. 



The Black Squirrel becomes a boy with the first 

 snow. What a pity he cannot shout ! There is a 

 superabundant joy and life in his long, graceful 

 bounds, when his beautiful form, in its striking 

 contrast with the white snow, seems magnified to 

 twice its actual size. Perhaps there is vanity as well 



317 



