VII 



SQUIRREL 



WAS sitting in an English woodland listening to 

 bird-song and drinking in the beauty and glory of a 

 still, summer day. Almost hidden as I was in the 

 tall bracken I saw many pretty scenes; for Birdland's 

 veil seemed to have been lifted high on that 

 occasion. A Blackbird had been telling me the story of the leaves 

 and flowers; a Wren had told me secrets of the hedgerow; and 

 high up over all a Skylark sang a happy song of the deep blue sky 

 a song, which, although so simple, contained the very essence 

 of joy, and which seemed to have condensed in it the whole story 

 of the pageant of summer. 



As I waited and waited, just taking in the messages of 

 birds, and listening to the monotonous hum of the honey bee, 

 I heard a whirring noise above me, and, looking up, I saw two 

 black inquisitive eyes peering through the oak leaves. Even the 

 Squirrel had come to entertain me, and for some time he sat 

 there ; then finding that the strange creature below him seemed 

 harmless, he frisked down the tree, and perched on a branch much 

 nearer. Again he looked long at me, then comfortably sat on the 

 thick bough, placed his tail up his back, in the position seen in 

 my illustration, and holding an acorn in his paws, busied himself 

 with it. He turned it over and over, nibbling away little pieces 

 of shell, but every few seconds he would stop, and peer with 



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