“But squirming means suffering,” I replied.
He patted his little stomach with his paws. “What does it matter who suffers, if my skin is whole?”
“But your mind, Squirrie,” I said impatiently. “Even squirrels have something inside that isn’t all flesh. If I make another bird angry I feel nasty inside.”
“Squirrel minds don’t count,” he said airily, “my mother told me so. She said only bodies count.”
“That’s what the matter is with you,” I exclaimed. “You are hard-hearted and care only for yourself. If you get your own way, all the other little squirrels in the world can be cold and miserable and unhappy.”
“And all the little birdies too,” he said, mimicking me, “especially little Dicky-Dick birdies; and now for your impudence to me I’m going to take such a bite out of your tail that you’ll remember till moulting time the saucy offer you made to Mr. Squirrie to change his whole plan of life at your suggestion.”
I tried to fly, but I seemed paralyzed. He was staring fixedly right into my eyes, and suddenly he made a leap over my head, caught my tail in his mouth, and tore out every feather.
I thought he was going to kill me, and I screamed wildly, “Chummy, Chummy, help me! Help me!”
Dear old Chummy, whom I had seen down on the ground, examining the scrapings from my cage that Mrs. Martin always threw out the
window to him, heard me and flew swiftly up. He gave his battle cry and in an instant the air was thick with sparrows, who were all about the roofs examining nesting sites.