I may here mention that the nest of the squirrel is known in some parts of England by the name of “drey,” and in others by that of “cage.” The latter term is employed in the New Forest.
The house being ready, next comes the task of laying up a store of food. This consists chiefly of nuts, which the animal chooses with marvelous sagacity, or rather, instinct. No one ever yet found an unsound or worm-eaten nut in a squirrel’s store. The animal does not rely on a single storehouse, but hides its treasures here and there within easy range of its nest. Many nuts it buries, and owing to this habit, nut-trees are apt to spring up in unexpected places, for, if the weather should be exceptionally severe, the squirrel awakens but seldom from its winter sleep, and so does not need the store which it has hidden. Or, it may die or be killed after it has laid up its food, and so the buried nuts will take root and produce trees.
A remarkable instance of this fact occurred in the grounds of Walton Hall, belonging to the late Charles Waterton.
In former days there had been in the estate an old wooden mill. It had been disused for many years, and at last the only relic of it was the upper millstone which was left on the ground. The reader may be aware that the center of the upper stone is pierced with a tolerably large hole, through which the corn makes its way between the stones.
In the autumn of 1813, some nut-eating, hibernating animal, almost certainly a squirrel, had found this stone, and thought that the hole would make an admirable hiding-place for a nut. For some reason, the nut was never eaten, and consequently began to germinate. Mr. Waterton, who pervaded his grounds at all hours of day and night, detected the green shoot at once when it appeared in the spring of the following year. Foreseeing that the shoot, if it lived long enough to become a tree, would raise the stone from the ground, he had a fence put round it, and gave special orders for its preservation.
His prevision proved to be perfectly correct. In course of years, the little shoot became a large tree twenty-five feet in height, and bearing fine crops of fruit annually, and Mr. Edmund Waterton told me that in his boyhood he had often climbed it for the purpose of procuring nuts. After the stem was large enough to fill the orifice in which it had been planted it lifted the stone, and raised it some eight or nine inches above the ground.
As might be imagined, in the course of years the pressure of the stone destroyed the bark, and stopped the circulation of the sap, so that the tree died. In order to save it from being blown down, the trunk and branches were cut away some feet above the stone. On my last visit to Walton Hall, shortly before Mr. Waterton’s death, the stone was still suspended above the ground, and as a memorial of so remarkable a result of hibernation, I made a careful sketch of it, which was published by Messrs. Macmillan.
It is also noticeable as an example of the slow, silent, and almost irresistible power of vegetation. Even the soft and pulpy mushroom has been known to raise a flat, heavy paving-stone fairly off the ground. Had the mushrooms been allowed to grow, and the paving-stone laid on them, it would have crushed them under its weight. But the vital powers of growth are so tremendous, even when acting upon so feeble a medium, that they performed a feat which would have been thought impossible had it not been witnessed.
In some parts of South America, where the growth of vegetation is surprisingly rapid, there used to be, and may be still, a mode of inflicting capital punishment by the power of vegetation. We all know the sharply-pointed and bayonet-like leaves of certain aloes. The victim was simply fastened to the ground over a spot where an aloe was just starting from the earth, and before a day had gone by, the leaves would grow completely through the body.
I briefly mention these examples in order to show how all nature is linked together, and that the hibernation of animals and the growth of vegetables are parts of one great system.