The Gray Squirrel 145 



There is an old orchard that I have known for 

 years, where the gray squirrels have a regular play- 

 ground in the autumn. It is connected with a piece 

 of woods by a fence, and this fence is the grand high- 

 way of all the squirrel tribe. During their earlier 

 visits to the orchard they come and go silently as if 

 on wing. When most of the apples are gathered, 

 and the frost has touched the leaves, leaving them sere 

 and russet, there is in the atmosphere a crispness 

 which has awakened the rollicking spirit in the gray 

 squirrels. No longer do they follow the old fence, 

 but cut across lots, chasing each other in and out, 

 now on this side, now on that, on the way to the tree 

 tops in the orchard. Here, while searching for food 

 in the first light of the morning, they frolic, leaping 

 from branch to branch, and chattering and scolding 

 like a lot of magpies. If left undisturbed, they re- 

 main until the sun is more than an hour high, when 

 they begin to retreat to their forest homes in the 

 same jubilant manner in which they came. On 

 reaching the forest, for another half hour they race 

 through the tree tops before retiring. 



If perchance, having found your way into the 

 forest before them to await their coming, you disturb 

 them in their frolic, they will instantly vanish from 

 sight behind the tree trunks or the shielding branches. 



