THE RED SQUIRREL. 



" I LIE abstracted and hear beautiful tales of 



things and the reasons of things ; 

 They are so beautiful, I nudge myself to 

 listen." WALT WHITMAN. 



THIS morning, in the month of February, 

 the cold is below zero. The sky is clear, 

 the air is still, the trees crack, the snow gives 

 way under the sleigh with a distinct crunch. All 

 sounds are easily heard. The chirp of a kinglet 

 the call of the chickadee, the tapping of the 

 woodpecker, break the stillness as if all the 

 world was dead beside. Almost within reach 

 of my arm, perched on the end of a fir limb, is a 

 red squirrel, or pine squirrel, or chickaree, or 

 Sciurus hudsonius. By all these names he is 

 known. His winter coat shows to advantage, 

 the long hair on the ears especially, and some- 

 what longer on the whole body than in summer, 

 is silver-tipped with frost. He is making his 

 breakfast on the tender frozen ends of the branch 

 on which he is seated. My heart is touched by 

 his misfortune. Only a few months ago he was 



