126 
LETTERS FROM ALABAMA. 
Ascends the neighbouring beech ; there whisks his brush, 
And perks his ears, and stamps, and cries aloud, 
With all the prettiness of feign’d alarm, 
And anger insignificantly fierce.” * 
This description might almost have served for a 
portrait of our sylvan friend. He chatters, shows 
his teeth, and grunts at you from the security of 
some lofty branch ; utters his short impatient bark ; 
dashes round the trunk ; threatens again from the 
opposite side ; “ whisks his brush,” as the poet says^ 
and declares, as plainly as action can speak, that 
he has a great mind to eat you up, only that you 
are so provokingly big. 
Generally two or three play together, and it is 
very amusing to watch their manoeuvrings ; to mark 
how they leap from branch to branch, to see them 
fly round and round almost with the agility of a 
bird ; now they chase each other round and round 
the tree, dart up and down the smooth pillar-like 
trunk, hi and out of the hollows; now they scamper 
along some horizontal bough till they reach the 
terminal twig, whence they take a flying jump to 
the neighbouring tree, fearless of the chasm that 
yawns between. All this is pretty play, but the 
merciless planter puts a tragical end to it. He 
comes up with his unerring rifle ; the barrel drops 
into his left hand ; the stock is at his shoulder ; a 
momeutary sight — crack! — down falls the game- 
some squirrel, plunging through the green leaves, 
and plumps heavily on the earth. A drop of blood 
on each side, staining the white fur of the belly, 
shows that the fatal ball has passed right through. 
The planter loads again ; as much powder as will 
just cover the ball lying in the hollow of his left 
* The Task, book vi. 
