TENANTS OF WINTER BIRDS' NESTS 47 



these twigs, killed before their time, do not fall ; 

 and when the branches of the tree become bare, 

 there remains in one of the uppermost crotches a 

 big ball of leaves, — rain and snow proof, with a 

 tiny entrance at one side. 



On a stormy mid-winter afternoon we stand 

 beneath the tree and, through the snowflakes 

 driven past by the howling gale, we catch glimpses 

 of the nest swaying high in air. Far over it 

 leans, as the branches are whipped and bent by 

 the wind, and yet so cunningly is it wrought that 

 never a twig or leaf loosens. We can imagine the 

 pair of little shadow-tails within, sleeping fear- 

 lessly throughout all the coming night. 



But the sleep of the gray squirrel is a healthy 

 and a natural one, not the half-dead trance of 

 hibernation; and early next morning their sharp 

 eyes appear at the entrance of their home and 

 they are out and off through the tree-top path 

 which only their feet can traverse. Down the 

 snowy trunks they come with a rush, and with 

 strong, clean bounds they head unerringly for 

 their little caches of nuts. Their provender is 

 hidden away among the dried leaves, and when 

 they want a nibble of nut or acorn they make their 

 way, by some mysterious sense, even through 

 three feet of snow, down to the bit of food which, 

 months before, they patted out of sight among the 

 moss and leaves. 



It would seem that some exact sub-conscious 



