GRAY DAYS AND MERRY WAYS 



we are nearing- a favorite squirrel resort. And 

 now listen to the noisy chatter of the red-coats as 

 they career among the branches and scurry about 

 the tree-trunks. I doubt if at any season of the 

 year you could find wilder merriment than in 

 yonder rollicking company. 



In the confusion of the throng it is impossible 

 for me to distinguish my particular friends, yet I 

 have several acquaintances among the red squir- 

 rels of the grove, and one little couple I claim as 

 my intimates. Let me tell you their story as we 

 gather our winter drift-wood. My selections are 

 made from just such stores as you see lying all 

 around us. Resinous cones and fragrant fir-tips; 

 dry twigs and mossy boughs; pine needles and 

 dead leaves; bits of bark, scraps of fungous 

 growths, empty seed-pods, remnants of old nests, 

 nibbled nuts anything and everything in the 

 way of forest flotsam and jetsam that will kindle 

 the enthusiasm of the hard-hearted back logs or 

 tell in flames the sweet story of the woods finds 

 a place in my drift-wood collection. 



And now for the chronicle of Mr. Rufus and 

 Madame Jolie-Queue, as we call the little squir- 

 rel couple with whom we are on such intimate 

 terms. 



