2o6 AROUND AN OLD HOMESTEAD. 



them. Which kind of nut do they like best? I do 

 not know. They apparently have no preference, but 

 attack all indiscriminately and with equal ferocity; and 

 yet I have noticed that the hickories are the first to go. 



I like to hear the squirrels bark. It is a sound of 

 wild Nature. The bark, or call, of the gray or fox 

 squirrel is a curious intermixture of squeals, and snicker- 

 ings, and chucklings, as if he were congratulating him- 

 self on some extra good fortune. How one will sud- 

 denly spring round the trunk of a tree, and give vent 

 to his feelings in a rollicking challenge of these 

 chuckles, following one after another as fast as pos- 

 sible — and then a long, drawn-out squeal — then an- 

 other series of rapidly issuing chuckles — and then an- 

 other long squeal ! Or perhaps he will run up the tree 

 a little, barking as he goes; or, breaking off, will 

 scamper quickly to a crotch, and finish his bark there; 

 or perchance will make two or three stops before he is 

 through with his statement. It is one of the sounds 

 to listen for in the mornings; for he is always inclined 

 to open the day with this joking announcement of his 

 presence on the arena, and he usually closes the twilight 

 with this same queer drollery of the woods. 



Squirrel hunting in my boyhood was the most en- 

 joyable thing we ever did. We entered into it with a 

 real zest for the woods. We watched the sunsets 

 according to the Scriptures, and, if the morrow looked 

 favorable and the wind was dying, we would arrange 

 for a hunt. Each would take a separate ridge as his 

 special game preserve, but we had a way of signaling 

 to one another with the Bob White! of the quail, 

 thinking the squirrels would not notice that familiar 



