THE SQUIRREL'S ROAD. 
It zigzags through the pastures brown, 
And climbs old Pine Hill to its crown, 
With many a broken stake and rail, 
And gaps where beds of ivy trail. 
In hollows of its mossy top 
The pine-cone and the acorn drop; 
While, here and there, aloft is seen 
A timid, waving plume of green, 
Where some shy seed has taken hold 
With slender roots in moss and mold. 
The squirrel, on his frequent trips 
With corn and mast between his lips, 
Glides in and out from rail to rail, 
With ears erect and flashing tail. 
Sometimes he stops, his spoil laid by, 
To frisk and chatter merrily, 
Or wash his little elfin face, 
With many a flirt and queer grimace. 
Anon he scolds a passing crow, 
Jerking his pert tail to aud fro, 
Or scurries like a frightened thief 
At shadow of a falling leaf. 
All day along his fence-top road 
He bears his harvest, load by load; 
The acorn with its little hat ; 
The butternut, egg-shaped and fat ; 
The farmer's corn, from shock and wain; 
Cheek-pouches-full of mealy grain; 
Three-cornered beechnuts, thin of shell; 
The chestnut, burred and armored well; 
And walnuts, with their tight green coats 
Close buttoned round their slender throats. 
A busy little workman he, 
Who loves his task, yet labors free, 
Stops when he wills, to frisk and bark, 
And never drudges after dark! 
I love to hear his chirring cry, 
When rosy sunrise stains the sky, 
And see him flashing in his toil, 
While frost like snow encrusts the soil. 
With tail above his back, he sails 
Along the angles of the rails, 
Content to gain two rods in three, 
And have sure highway from his tree. 
Dear is the old-time squirrel way, 
With mosses green and lichens gray, — 
The straggling fence, that girds the hill, 
And wanders through the pine woods still. 
I loved it in my boyhood time, 
I loved it in my manhood's prime, 
Would in the corn-field I could lie, 
And watch the squirrels zigzag by! 
— James Buckham. 
