LXIX. A Lionesome Squirrel 



ONE wet morning recently I happened to be 

 passing through the wood-lot, when I heard 

 the squawking of a black squirrel. I re- 

 joiced to think that perhaps the squirrels 

 were coming back, but investigation revealed only one 

 lone specimen, and, judging by its size and actions, 

 it had wandered far from its mother. It was crying 

 from pure lonesomeness, and it didn't care who heard 

 it. At the best the cry of a black squirrel is about 

 the saddest thing in nature, but to hear it when the 

 trees are dripping and the woods gloomy it is the 

 last note of sorrow and pessimism. I have never 

 seen an attempt to render this sound in letters, but 

 what of that? We shall try it now. As nearly as 

 I can arrive at it, the sound should be represented 

 somewhat as follows : 



"ku-ku-kwanh-h-h!" 



The last syllable is long drawn out in a most deso- 

 lating manner. Come to look at it, this attempt to 



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