The whole of the morning was occupied by the persistent little creature in efforts to get her plaything up to where she wanted it. It fell to the floor quite a dozen times, but she tackled it again, every time with unabated energy. I questioned the housemaid as to why she had thrown it into the cage, and found that she had never touched it. Rufina must therefore have dragged it from under the cupboard, across the room, and by a great effort jumped with it in her mouth to the level of the window-sill, about two and a half feet from the floor.
By the evening, however, it had disappeared, and I descried it at last in the very topmost corner of her home. It was above the sleeping-box, wedged into an old bicycle basket, which was nailed under the eaves. This had some hay in it, and was used for hiding nuts. Did Rufina place it there as a shield against Peter’s thefts?
After a day or two the trap fell down again, and I took it away, afraid lest a little paw might be caught and wedged between the wires.
When Miss Appleton kindly undertook to illustrate my first book about the squirrels, though she stayed with us several times in order to sketch Fritz and Bunty from life, it was found necessary for her to have a squirrel model in her friends’ studio in London, where she was working at the time. A wire-netting place was therefore improvised on the roof, outside the high studio window in Kensington, and in due time came a package from Devon and Co. labelled “Live Squirrel.”
The lady artists who owned the studio were delighted at the idea of having this little pet, and, in Miss Appleton’s absence, proceeded at once most incautiously to open the box. They prised one end open, and were going to bring it to the door of the cage they had prepared, when hey! presto! there was a flash, a scurry of fur upon hands and arms, and away went the squirrel helter-skelter over pictures, statuary, easels, chairs, and shelves. Crash! crash! bang went glass, smashing to atoms, down fell pictures, over went models, and a wild and exciting uproar followed. The artists shrieked, the squirrel sprang here, there, and everywhere in a fifty by seventy feet room crammed indiscriminately with painters’ and sculptors’ paraphernalia.
Inarticulate with laughter, the ladies sprang after it. Faster and faster it flew, taking wild leaps from the top of one easel to another; pattering swiftly over angels’ wings and Mercury’s helmet, over Clytie’s bust and the horns of Mephistopheles; diving down to the floor, scrambling up the walls, till dismay arose as the bewildered creature jumped upon the stove and ran along the hot-water pipes.
