Like a boy, the Black Squirrel 
delights in the new-fallen snow 
— like a real boy, with red hands 
as well as red cheeks, and an 
automatic mechanism of bones 
and muscles capable of all things except rest. 
The first snow sends a thrill of joy through every fibre 
of such a boy, and a thousand delights crowd into his 
mind. The gliding, falling coasters on the hills, the 
passing sleighs with nitches on the runners for his 
feet, the flying snowballs, the sliding places, the 
broad, tempting ice, all whirl through his mind in a 
delightful panorama, and he hurries out to catch the 
elusive flakes in his outstretched hands and shout 
aloud in the gladness of his heart. 
The Black Squirrel becomes a boy with the first 
snow. What a pity he cannot shout ! There is a 
superabundant joy and life in his long, graceful 
bounds, when his beautiful form, in its striking 
contrast with the white snow, seems magnified to 
twice its actual size. Perhaps there is vanity as well 
217 
