A JUNE DAY CHAT 



successes; vigorous snortings and sputterings ac- 

 companying the performance and testifying to 

 deep sea-soundings instead of surface sips, but he 

 now has to perfection the art of drinking quietly 

 and politely. 



About half way up the trunk of the central 

 table d'hote maple is a convenient hollow where, 

 during summer months, I daily place a small 

 supply of nuts for my squirrel proteges. This 

 hollow is one of many souvenirs of a terrible 

 sleet and wind storm, during which great ice- 

 coated boughs wrenched from the trees by their 

 own weight, or snapped off like dry twigs by the 

 fierce wind went crashing to the ground with 

 sounds suggestive of universal destruction. 



You may fancy that, on account of being daily 

 provisioned, this storm-hewn hollow is a favorite 

 squirrel lunch-counter; but it has served more 

 than one peaceful purpose lately, for it was the 

 cradle in which Madame Jolie-Queue used to 

 place her baby for his day-naps his well-earned 

 times of rest between trapeze performances and 

 other strenuous exercises. And while he slept 

 she would station herself, always face outward, 

 on the little ledge in front of the hollow, con- 

 cealing him so completely that it was only by 

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