I scuttled from his wide open hallway into his little bedroom, wondering what had happened. A shower of nutshells had just been dropped past our beaks. “Who’s doing that?” I asked.
“Squirrie—he hates me because he can’t get a foothold to explore this house.”
“And who is Squirrie?” I asked.
“The worst little rascal of a squirrel that you ever saw. He respects nobody, and what do you think is his favorite song?—not that he can sing. His voice is like a crow’s.”
“I can’t imagine what kind of songs a squirrel would sing,” I said.
“I’ll run over it for you,” said Chummy, “though I haven’t a very good voice myself.
“‘I care for nobody, no not I,
And nobody cares for me.
I live in the middle of Pleasant Street
And happy will I be!’