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BILLY AND HANS 



IN my favourite summer resort at 

 the lower edge of the Black 

 Forest, the quaint old town of 

 Laufenburg, a farmer's boy one 

 day brought me a young squirrel for 

 sale. He was a tiny creature, proba- 

 bly not yet weaned, a variation on 

 the ordinary type of the European 

 squirrel, dark grey instead of the usual 

 red, and with black tail and ears, so 

 that at first, as he contented himself 

 with drinking his milk and sleeping, 

 I was not sure that he was not a dor- 

 mouse. But examination of the paws, 

 with their delicate anatomy, so mar- 

 vellously like the human hand in 

 their flexibility and handiness, and 

 the graceful curl of his tail, settled 



