thing snug and warm about a hammock? Not 

 much, true enough. From the outside the gray 

 squirrel's leaf bed looks like the coldest, dead- 

 liest place one could find in which to pass the 

 winter. The leaves are loose and rattle in the 

 wind like the clapboards of a tumble-down 

 house. The limb threatens every moment to 

 toss the clumsy nest out upon the storm. But 

 the moorings hold, and if we could curl up with 

 the sleeper in that swaying bed, we should rock 

 and dream, and never feel a shiver through the 

 homespun blankets of chestnut bark that wrap 

 us round inside the flapping leaves. 



Be it never so cozy, a nest like this is far 

 from a burrow the bed of a fat, thick-headed 

 dolt who sleeps away the winter. A glance into 

 the stark, frozen top of the oak sends over us a 

 chill of fright and admiration for the dweller 

 up there. He cannot be an ease-lover j neither 

 can he know the meaning of fear. We should 

 as soon think of a sailor's being afraid of the 

 shrieking in the rigging overhead, as of this 

 bold squirrel in the tree-tops dreading any 

 danger that the winter winds might bring. 



There are winters when the gray squirrel 

 [62] 



