THE RED COW 



render the cry of the black squirrel has a sort of 

 pluperfect look, and I have no doubt that a skilled 

 philologist could trace it back to an Aryan root — 

 but I digress. Anyway, my squirrel was squawking 

 and bawling in the universal language of childhood. 

 In the words of the poet, he had "no language but 

 a cry." After spying him I began to edge closer 

 to observe his actions. He frisked about as I ap- 

 proached, and whenever I stood still he began to 

 cry again. When crying he always clung to the 

 tree, with his head downwards, and with every syl- 

 lable he gave his tail a little jerk. I might say that 

 he was scolding at me, if it were not for the plain- 

 tiveness of the noise he was making. Every few 

 minutes I took a few steps nearer, until at last I 

 was within twenty feet of the half-dead maple from 

 which he was pouring his woe. Although I was 

 quite evidently "viewed with alarm" in the most ap- 

 proved editorial manner, he shifted his feet a little 

 from time to time and kept up his wailing. Finally 

 I sat down under the shelter of a tree trunk and 

 continued to watch him. He scolded and squawked 

 and then began to come down the tree, inch by inch, 

 precariously moving headforemost. I kept perfectly 

 still for some minutes — keeping a position of abso- 



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