Those rocks were a long way beneath him. But there was one thing about Frisky Squirrel—he never was the least bit dizzy, or afraid, when he looked down from high places. Perhaps there were too many other things to be afraid of—such as coons and foxes—and dogs.
The miller’s dog was drawing nearer now, because Frisky had stopped. And the dog from the other side of the river was only about six jumps away!
Frisky Squirrel didn’t wait another instant. He jumped right down the face of the dam. Where he had stood a moment before the two dogs came together with a bump. Probably they would have started to fight, if they had not been so interested in Frisky Squirrel. There they stood, with their necks stretched out over the edge of the dam, watching Frisky as he went rolling and tumbling down to the bed of the river. And when they saw him pick himself up and go skipping from stone to stone until he reached the shore and scampered away, they looked very foolish indeed.
In fact, they felt foolish, too. And without saying one word they turned about and each crept back to his own side of Swift River.
