HUNTING THE GRAY SQUIRREL 
In the Good Old Days of Plenty V 
By WIDGEON 
I N the golden days of my boyhood, 
about one mile east of the old 
Homestead, the hills were crowned 
with a great tract of magnificent wood¬ 
land, locally known as “Crawfords 
Woods.” There was over one hundred 
acres in this tract, comprised largely 
of giant chestnuts and oaks, inter¬ 
spersed with single trees, and small 
groves of hickories, which was the home 
of great numbers of grey squirrels, 
raccoons and other woodland denizens. 
Stalking the wary grey squirrels when 
they are “working” on the opening 
hickory nuts in late September, has 
always held a peculiar charm for me. 
Many happy hours have I spent gun 
in hand, silently stealing along those 
shaded aisles in their quest, and many 
a goodly bag of them have I brought 
\ome with me when the day was done. 
One late September morning in the 
long ago, I arose long before daylight. 
Dressing in the darkness, I tip-toed as 
silently as possible down the broad 
stair-case of the old Homestead, to the 
dining-room below. Here from where I 
had laid them the night before, I 
transferred to the pockets of my shoot¬ 
ing coat, my powder flask, shot pouch, 
cap box and wads, then with the 
treasured little Manton in hand, I 
stealthily walked from the kitchen door. 
Old Gunner, ever on guard, with a soft 
bark of recognition rushed to meet me, 
his tail eloquently wagging with antici¬ 
pation as he saw the gun, but at my 
sharp command he remained behind, 
with drooping tail and hanging head, 
a pathetic figure of dejected disappoint¬ 
ment. Passing down the lane I crossed 
the murmuring brook at the bridge. It 
was the old of the moon and its dimin¬ 
ishing golden crescent hung low in the 
This is Widgeon’s (C. Ackerson) 
last story. It reflects the beauty 
of a mind that lived a gentle and 
kindly life in close communion 
with nature and responsive to all 
the charm and glory of woodland, 
marsh and stream. 
west, and as I swiftly crossed the 
pasture fields, the dew laden grass 
sparkled in its light. Soon I reached 
Uncle William’s lane, and passed down 
the gloomy defile leading to his Marl 
bank, here I leaped the little brook 
dividing his land from the Stout farm, 
this and the old Hannaway place were 
quickly traversed, and I paused to rest 
on the topmost rail of the fence, that 
skirted the road leading to Captain 
Taylors. It was now at that darkest 
hour just before the dawn. The silence 
of death brooded over the woodlands, 
and as I crossed the road and plunged 
into the gloom of Crawfords woods, I 
could not see my hand before my face. 
Passing down a familiar pathway, I 
came to where some great storm had 
laid prostrate one of the forest giants, 
and seating myself in comfort on its 
prone body, with my back against its 
upturned roots, I waited the coming 
day. There was a very noticeable chill 
in the air, and I drew my hunting coat 
closely about me. As I sat patiently 
waiting, there came to my ear sus¬ 
picious sounds as if something were 
falling softly from the tree tops, and 
then I remembered that a short dis¬ 
tance down the path, stood a giant 
chestnut tree with a dead top, whose 
bark was deeply scarred with the sharp 
claws of climbing animals, proclaiming 
it to be a Raccoon “den” tree. Silently 
I stole down the path, and there on an 
outstretching dead limb, in the top of 
the “den” tree, faintly outlined against 
the first blush of the coming dawn, 
stood a large Raccoon, busily engaged 
in enlarging the entrance to his den. 
With his sharp teeth he would bite out 
mouthfuls of the decayed wood, and 
this dropping down made the noise I 
had heard. Step by step I cautiously 
neared the tree, just a few more feet 
and I would be near enough to shoot 
and I held the little gun in hands tense 
with excitement, but alas, in the dark¬ 
ness my foot pressed on a dry twig, 
and at its faint snap, the “coon” dis¬ 
appeared as if by magic, and I returned 
to my seat on the log, a bitterly dis- j 
appointed boy, for I had counted that 
coon as surely mine. 
1 
''THROUGH the interlacing branches 
*■ the eastern sky turned to royal 
purple, then slowly changed to violet, 
rose and gold. A rosy radiance 
suffused the tree tops, and filtering 
through the leafy canopy, made the 
ghostly outline of the tree trunks slow¬ 
ly appear, like a transformation scene 
upon some “movie” screen. And now 
the forest creatures awoke, mysterious 
stealthy scratchings and rustlings could 
be heard, the swish of unseen wings, 
the soft crash in the distance, as a 
squirrel leaped from limb to limb, and 
then from near at hand with startling 
clearness, came the beautiful bell-like 
note of the Hermit Thrush. As the 
light steadily increased there came a 
brisk rustling in the woodland carpet, 
and a large squirrel sprang upon the 
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