I kept court-plaster and bandages on hand to repair the damage that was always done on such occasions, and Kitchi-Kitchi never appeared to notice it except once. When Bismarck called upon her with a blood-stained bandage tied over one eye, she shrieked and kicked him outdoors. He fell to the ground like a dead weight, I suppose because his heart was so heavy—but fortunately was not injured further. Meeko had her to himself for a week after that, then Bismarck, the bandage gone, resumed his place at her side and upheld his right to it in many a scrimmage.
The two vied with each other in bringing dainties to tempt her appetite. Robins’ eggs, with the top part of the shell removed, all ready for sucking, mushrooms, nuts, berries, apple seeds, pop-corn, and the thousand other choice bits her educated palate was accustomed to, were laid at the door of her nest, high in the branches. It was Meeko who accidentally brought her a poisonous mushroom which made her so ill that for days her life was despaired of. She forgave him, however, and used to sit in the sun, very thin and pale, with two devoted attendants to wait upon her.
Naturalists who think that Squirrels eat Birds are very much mistaken. I have seen Meeko pounce on a wayfaring Bird hundreds of times, but curiosity has always been the motive. They will not eat Bird unless it is properly cooked. I know, for I have tried them with bits of a raw Crow, that had died from natural causes. The fact that Birds are not afraid of Squirrels triumphantly proves my theory, in spite of the fact that the eggs are occasionally taken out of the nest. Whenever a Squirrel has visited a Bird’s nest, after the young were hatched, curiosity and friendly interest in the welfare of the young have been the sole reasons in every case.
Meantime, my fame as a tickler had spread abroad, and I used to give up hours to it each day. I might better have spent the time in writing, but it was so noisy that I could not write, except to make hasty notes in my note-book, and I was there to study Natural History. An old grey Squirrel from the next county brought her entire family of young for me to tickle, and when I refused, she bit one of my ears until the blood came in a bright red stream. Bismarck drove her away and Kitchi-Kitchi stanched the bleeding with a bit of Rabbit fur she brought from the woods for the purpose.
Kitchi-Kitchi was devotedly attached to me. She would stop eating a nut any time to scamper down the tree-trunk and perch upon my arm or shoulder. She would sit upon my shoulder while I performed my manifold household duties, and would occasionally precede the broom, sweeping the floor with her tail. She would stay in my cabin long after I had told her to go home, and when I put her out, she would return by way of the window or chimney, cross the room, climb me, and put her head down between my collar and neck, barking meanwhile unless I spoke to her, stroked her, or tickled her. It used to give me an uncanny feeling when she ran up my spine while I was writing in my ledger—in other words, the climate disagreed with me.
It fell to my lot this Summer to hear a Squirrel singing a duet with itself. It sounds as though the voice were split, the high part coming through the nose, and the low tones through the throat. It is always a lively tune, perfectly rhythmical, interspersed with gales and gusts and cyclones of very human laughter. It is not generally known that Squirrels sing, but Little Brothers of the Woods can find out a great deal if they only give their minds to it and buy plenty of books.
At length, I missed Kitchi-Kitchi, and my heart grew sick with foreboding. I feared lest one of those terrible tragedies of the woods had taken place and my little friend’s life had thus been sacrificed. The end of a wild animal is always a tragedy—the pitiless law of the wilderness, supported by claw and tooth and fang, has so ordained.
Meeko and Bismarck were as usual, except that they carried a great many nuts and mushrooms up one particular tree. Determined to find out, I climbed, and there on her nest, pale and worn with the long vigil, but still cheerful, sat Kitchi-Kitchi.
She would not let me lift her, protesting loudly when I tried it, but when I tickled her in the ribs she moved enough to give me a glimpse of the eggs under her. Very few observers have ever seen a Squirrel’s egg. They are about the size of a Turkey’s egg, a dark brown in colour, with a long, handle-like projection, fully as long as the egg itself, at the wider end. This undoubtedly holds the tail of the baby Squirrel.
Six weeks later she came down—a mere shadow of her former self. In three weeks more, the babies were able to come also, and they made a pretty group, playing in my dooryard and falling over themselves at every step, not yet having learned how to manage their tails. I would have tickled them, gladly, but I already had my hands full and I did not wish the new generation to acquire the habit.