“The thief must be some one of our furry friends, some one who is especially fond of nuts,” suggested the Ranger.
“There is a tiny hole gnawed in the wall up there. I thought it might be a mouse, but they always leave some sign.”
“Let’s see, now, if there aren’t some footprints to tell the story,” and the Ranger climbed up on the window sill and began peering about with a lighted match. “Ho, ho!” he called.
For there, faintly outlined by the dust, was a footprint like that of a tiny squirrel,—the print of a long, hind foot, with its five delicate toe marks. And on the edge of the hole the Ranger’s sharp eyes had spied a hair,—a single hair of some one’s orange colored fur.
“It’s a chipmunk, and he must have sat up here on his hind legs to sample a nut before he stuffed his cheeks. But imagine how many trips he must have had to make to carry away all those nuts!”
“Perhaps there was more than one.”
“That’s right. But there are so many tracks running through the dust that this is the only clear one I see. Must have been made just this morning, for no dust has settled in it yet. Well, now, the nuts are gone. And I don’t believe they’ll come for anything more. That frost last night will send them into winter quarters.”
The Ranger was right about the chipmunks. But he little dreamed what had driven them to it. Had Fuzzy-Wuzz not found and gobbled up the nuts they had gathered for themselves, Chuck and Chipper never would have gotten up the courage to come so often to the cabin, where Clickety-Clack, the owl, prowled about the dark corners looking for just such tid-bits as they would make for him.
As it was, Chuck and Chipper were going to have a well-stocked cache that winter.
“As an actual fact,” said the Ranger that evening, when they had told the children about it, “I don’t begrudge the little rascals what they have taken, they are such good foresters.”