2 
FOREST AND STREAM 
January 3, 1914. 
A Day With The Gray Squirrel 
By LINCOLN W1LBAR 
T HERE are, no doubt, those who will ques¬ 
tion whether one gray squirrel, albeit a 
large one, is sufficient reward for a whole 
day spent in the open—tramping from one wal¬ 
nut tree to another, visiting every chestnut tree 
within miles, and searching likely-looking patches 
of woodland with the minute industry of him 
who hunts the proverbial needle in a haystack— 
but either they are not sportsmen or they are the 
sort that prefer to burden themselves with such 
a weight of spoils that all the subtler pleasures 
of the day are submerged in the weariness of 
supporting the burden of success. 
For myself, although I do not object to hav¬ 
ing something material in the way of fur or 
feather to show for my day’s sport, I am not 
bound by any greedy traditions to find my sole 
enjoyment in the size of my bag, and I can look 
upon a single gray squirrel or a single bird as 
a generous bonus bestowed on me by a prodigal 
Nature, that has already yielded a bountiful re¬ 
turn in pleasure on my investment of time and 
energy. 
This is a fortunate frame of mind for a sports¬ 
man to be in in these days, when one does not 
exactly find quail under every bush or grays in 
every tree, and it is possible that Providence, 
which fits the back to the burden, also fits the 
sporting desire somewhat to the means of gratify¬ 
ing it. At least, I have noticed that men are 
satisfied with less game in districts where game 
is scarce than they are in more generous locali¬ 
ties. My gray squirrel shooting has, latterly, been 
done in a section where grays are not so plenti¬ 
ful as they might be; and where the ordinary bag 
is nil, one plump gray squirrel is a matter of vast 
consequence. 
It is generally an exceptionally glorious au¬ 
tumn morning that tempts me to go squirrel hunt¬ 
ing, and always an exceptional press of work 
that makes me yield to the temptation. Why this 
should be so I cannot explain. Whether it is 
the press of work that makes me want to go 
hunting, or the desire to go hunting that, by 
some malicious influence, causes the press of 
work, my philosophy is unable to decide. 
On the occasion of which I write, however, 
the morning was too fine for philosophical medi¬ 
tations, and from the moment I swung my leg 
over the fence that bounded the Carver woods, 
and dropped to the soft carpet of leaves on the 
other side, my mind was occupied only with the 
business in hand and those sub-conscious reflec¬ 
tions which are engendered by the beauty of the 
Autumn woods in perfect Autumn weather. 
Behind me, as I leaned for a moment on the 
ience that, originally outside the woods, was 
now several yards with the fringe of young 
oaks and birches, lay the field I had traversed 
from the road, its tall, rough grass, heavily 
whitened with hoar frost, making it look more 
like a fairy forest than a very ordinary pasture 
lot. Ahead was a mixed growth of oak and pine, 
still cool, damp duskiness below, but warm and 
bright above, where the rising sun caught the 
topmost boughs and caused them to glow golden 
against the sky. 
It was pleasanter to look up than down, and 
as my eyes searched the cheerful spaces above 
for signs of game, I reflected that one reason 
why the squirrel is such a light-hearted, frolic¬ 
some creature is because it lives so much aloft. 
It gets up out of the shadows. And the best 
thing in squirrel shooting is that it also keeps 
me looking up out of the shadows at the bright 
side. Looking up is good both for the mind and 
the body, uplifting the spirits and expanding the 
lungs; and I defy anyone to hunt gray squirrels 
through a whole season without deriving im¬ 
mense benefit therefrom. 
Just beyond where I stood the well-worn 
path forked—one path going to the right, through 
alternating swale and maple swamp to some dis¬ 
tant farmsteads, where there were numerous wal¬ 
nut trees in the neighboring woods and grown-up 
pastures; the other path turning to the left and 
following an old Indian trail to the Fowling 
Pond, around which lay some of the best chest¬ 
nut woods in the state; The question for an in¬ 
divisible man to decide, therefore, was which of 
these paths to follow. 
I chose the right-hand path, an artistic eye 
being sufficient to disturb the perfect balance of 
the sporting chances. But before I set foot on 
it I paused to glance along the left-hand path, 
and as I did so a sudden tremor shook the top 
of a young oak, quite at the limit of my vision. 
Was it beast or bird? One or the other it must 
be, for there was absolutely no wind; so, slipping 
a cartridge into the chamber of my Stevens, I 
stole along the carpeted path as silently as the 
dusky braves whose moccasined feet had first 
worn the pathway. 
After that first violent shiver of the branches, 
however, I saw no further movement; not a twig 
stirred. But I have noticed that on these per¬ 
fectly calm mornings the gray has a trick of 
“lyin’ low” in the tree-tops for some little time 
after it has disclosed its presence to possible 
enemies by a leap, as if it reasoned that the 
shaking of a branch in such circumstances was 
a clue given to the foe. Accordingly I practiced 
patience, knowing that if a gray were there, abso¬ 
lute quietness would be most likely to place him 
at my mercy. 
I waited ten minutes. Then, having neither 
seen nor heard anything of the squirrel, I settled 
my rifle in the crook of my arm and prepared to 
move on, convinced that some jay or other bird 
had caused the commotion. It was another case 
of human patience failing before the animal’s. 
With an unexpectedness that made me jump, a 
fine gray squirrel whisked around the trunk of 
the tree under which I stood, chuckled loudly at 
my discomfiture, and then leaped into the under¬ 
brush, getting away through the thicket to a 
group of big pines, out of which I was unable 
to stir it. 
This surreptitious surveillance is an old trick 
of the gray, and one which is thoroughly exas¬ 
perating to the hunter. It is bad enough to lose 
your squirrel in the final event, but to carry away 
the conviction that all the while you were search¬ 
ing for your quarry, your quarry was enjoying 
a malicious laugh at your expense from around 
a tree bole not three feet from your head is so 
humiliating to your spirit that you are quite ready 
to believe all the evil you have ever heard of the 
squirrel tribe, and to credit the race with many 
additional bad qualities conjured up by your ill 
humor. 
As grays were so scarce in that neighborhood 
that ordinarily it paid better to put in half a day 
hunting for a squirrel that was known to exist 
than to fare onward in quest of one that was 
only problematical, I spent so much time looking 
for squirrel No. 1 that when at length I moved 
in search of squirrel No. 2 the breakfast hour 
of the squirrel family was long past, and although 
I visited some extra choice spots, that seldom 
failed to produce at least one item, not a gray 
hair did I see. Red hair I saw in plenty, impu¬ 
dent red squirrels frequently greeting me with 
derisive chatter as I passed beneath the trees; 
but the wished-for gray tail was not in evidence. 
At last, however, in a walnut-tree that stood 
some twenty yards out in a boulder-strewn pas¬ 
ture, where woodchucks seemingly had taken the 
place of cattle, for their earthworks were every¬ 
where, I saw a gray. At least, I saw vanishing 
fragments of it as it performed the time-honored 
trick of keeping at least six inches of solid wal¬ 
nut between itself and me. Artful! The only 
reason that squirrel was not the original Artful 
Dodger was because it was a modern improve¬ 
ment. 
During the half-hour or more that I was 
waltzing around that walnut tree, my choicest 
strategy failed to show me a piece of gray fur 
larger than a ten-cent piece. And that bit never 
stayed still long enough for a bullet to reach it. 
Had there been two of me, that squirrel had 
certainly been mine; but being only a single in¬ 
dividual, with the usual physical limitations, I 
was at a disadvantage. 
The end was ignominious. As I sat for a 
moment on a boulder to rest and formulate a 
better -plan of attack, I had the inexpressible 
chagrin of seeing my squirrel just disappearing 
into the woods. Taking advantage of my in¬ 
action, the wilv animal had crept down the side 
of the tree away from me, and keeping the trunk 
between us, had almost reached safety when a 
slight deflection in its line of flight brought it 
within my view. I sent a bullet in hot pursuit, 
but I saw no more of that squirrel. 
It was now mid-morning, and I tramped the 
woods till noon without seeing even so much 
as the flick of a gray tail. I put up several part¬ 
ridges, however; and as I ate my lunch sitting 
on a tumbledown stone wall (which seemed out 
of place in the heart of the woods, until I saw 
traces of early Colonial corn furrows rippling 
under the brown carpet of pine needles) one of 
these birds walked across the cart path almost 
under my nose, and would certainly have paid 
the penalty of its rashness if my rifle had been 
loaded. As it was, in my haste to reach my 
weapon I swallowed so much wind with the 
mouthful I was chewing that I had an uncom¬ 
fortable lump in my stomach for a full hour 
afterward. 
All this time, the weather having remained 
perfect, the loveliness of the Autumn woodlands 
had more than compensated me for the scarcity 
of squirrels and my ill success with such as I had 
found. Now, however, the sky became overcast, 
a cold wind suddenly sprang up, and as I walked 
across a narrow alder-bordered causeway be¬ 
tween two picturesque swales, which rejoiced in 
the euphonious name of Patty Ann meadows, so 
sharp a shower beat down on me that I was glad 
to take refuge under a giant hemlock, whose 
graceful branches afforded perfect shelter from 
the downpour. 
Fortunately the shower was brief. But it left 
the woods uncomfortably wet, and thereafter I 
found it advisable to keep to the cart paths and 
the more open spaces. Even so, however, the 
drip from the trees “hit me every other time,” 
and this and my frequent encounters with the 
saturated undergrowth speedily made me so wet 
that I could at least sympathize with the French 
rustic who leaped into the river to avoid a 
shower. 
It was quite time, therefore, that fate should 
throw me a sop, and of course 'she must needs 
