A Skirmish with Squirrels 319 



to recognize in him anything worse than a funny 

 and quite desirable small chap. 



But let us step into the orchard. The air is 

 vibrant with the woe of robins, the wailing of cat- 

 birds, and the sympathetic outcry of a host of 

 feathered neighbors. Some great sorrow has fallen 

 somewhere amid the blooms and perfumes of that 

 lovely scene. Yonder sits the sorrow yonder 

 upon a stub, the red rascal, turning a something in 

 his clever paws, a something which he calmly 

 devours, to the accompaniment of screams and 

 futile protestations from the frantic birds. A frag- 

 ment falls, and the squirrel moves away. The frag- 

 ment surely is part of a blood-stained egg-shell, and 

 its condition tells that within a few days a young 

 bird might have been born. Above the lawn towers 

 a sturdy pine, the top of which has been cut off to 

 make the tree thicken. For years the flat top of 

 that trunk has been the chosen resting-place of a 

 pair of beautiful mourning doves. Standing near 

 the tree, we can hear a low coughing and sputtering, 

 not so unlike muttered profanity. Mingled with it 

 we hear the rasp of gnashing teeth and a soft pat- 

 bat-bat ! after which the profanity increases. Peer- 

 ing upward we see, amid the dense green, one of 

 Nature's small tragedies being played in deadly 

 earnest. 



The male dove is firmly braced above the two 

 snowy eggs, from which the young will shortly appear 

 if all goes well. The dove has one wing raised as a 

 fencer holds his free hand, while the other wing is 

 softly patting the bird's side. Sticking to the trunk 

 a few inches below the nest is a squirrel intent upon 



