"There is a good tree, father. See how pretty it is. It looks like our little firs at home."
"I believe that is just right for us, Polly. I will cut it down. Please hold my coat."
Father swung his ax. He gave three sharp blows. All at once there was a chatter overhead.
In the next tree a gray squirrel was running up a large branch. He was scolding with all his might. His tail was jerking. He looked very cross.
"Well, old fellow," said father, "did I disturb you? I am sorry. Go back to sleep. We will not take your tree."
"His is too bare, isn't it, father? The leaves have all gone. We must have a fir tree for ours. It has queer leaves. But they do not fall off in the winter."
"That is why we call such trees evergreens, Polly. They are always green. Pine trees are evergreens, too. Their needles are longer than fir needles."
"I think that is one of our squirrels," said Peter. "He took our nuts, Polly. I wonder where he put them."
"He thought they were his," said Polly. "He needed them."