Little Mitchell: The Story of a Mountain Squirrel

by Margaret Warner Morley

You see, he was almost dead from cold and weariness.

On went the lady, slowly climbing up the steep mountain; and the wonder is that Little Mitchell was not squeezed to death under her belt. But he slept on.

On through the great chestnut forest went the lady and her guide,—on past the handsome tulip trees, the great oaks, and all kinds of beautiful forest trees.

The sun grew hot on the mountain side, and the air became soft and hazy,—a little too soft and hazy for safety on that wild mountain, where storms ride swiftly up like witches from nowhere.

But on and up they went, until they came out of the forest to a wide sloping pasture,—a “bald” they call such open places on the mountains.

Here they found the ground covered thick with grass and flowers, and a herd of cattle grazing. These half-wild cattle raised their heads as the lady and her guide came out of the forest into their pasture, and some of them shook their long horns and began to step nearer. But the guide shouted and waved a big stick at them, and they went off.

And Baby Mitchell slept on.

When they were half-way across the “bald” that sloped gently upward, the lady turned around and looked back over the tree-tops.

It was a wonderful view.