SONG OF THE SQUIRREL.

Overhead on the boughs you may see me,

I’m off in a flash if you tease;

And I swing on the green twig above you,

As it gracefully bends to the breeze.

All the sweet summer time I am playing,

And cutting up capers so queer;

’Tis the happiest season for squirrels,

The holiday time of the year.

And when Autumn is dressing the wild wood

In raiment of scarlet and brown;

When Jack Frost comes to shake all the treetops,

Till the nuts and the acorns come down;

Then the squirrel’s rich harvest is welcome:

I gather a plentiful store.

You may know where my snug little house is,

By nuts that you see at my door.

All the winter, secure from the weather,

I live in my streets underground,

So concealed you can’t see my snug dwelling,

Where I sleep from the cold safe and sound.

Don’t you think I am clever and skilful,

And all my contrivances good;

Don’t you think that we gay little squirrels

Are the happiest folk of the wood?