The life story of a squirrel

by T. C. Bridges

But I was talking about the good times we had that autumn and the various delicacies we used to hunt. After the rain which brought such a crop of mushrooms, we had a week of wonderfully warm, soft, hazy weather, but then the wind switched round into the east, and for the first time in my life I understood what cold was. It blew bitterly, with a hard grey sky, and the trees being still full of leaves, the noise of the gale through the coppice was one long roar, the great boughs swaying, creaking, and complaining bitterly. Very glad we were, when night fell, to snuggle all four close together in the hollow in the beech hole which mother had selected as our abode after the destruction of our second nest! It was a very convenient residence, considering that it was a ready-made one. Some winter storm of years long past had torn away a large branch at its junction with the trunk, and rain and weather had rotted the scar till at last a hollow was left large enough to hold a dozen of us. Once it had been full of water, but a green woodpecker boring its nest in the trunk below, the moisture had drained away through the rotten fibres, and now it was dry as a bone, and formed as convenient and comfortable a retreat as any dreyless family of squirrels could possibly desire.

The gale lasted two whole days and nights, and then it cleared and left a hard blue sky from which the small white flecks of wind-cloud vanished one by one, and on the fourth morning we woke to find the grass white with hoar frost and a keen tang in the air which filled us with a wild delight in the mere fact of being alive. Rusty, Hazel and I sallied forth and tore round and round like three mad things, flinging ourselves from bough to bough, rattling up and down the huge trunk and wide-spreading branches, playing all manner of practical jokes on one another.

Mother watched us indulgently, but when, quite out of breath, we at last came back to her, she announced that the time had arrived to begin the collection of our winter stores.

‘Now that you have no father,’ she said, ‘you must help me in the work, for remember there is nothing worse than to be caught by bad weather unprepared, and without many stores of food.’

That was the first real work that I ever did. It seemed odd, when we reached the nut bushes at the edge of the coppice, not to choose the plumpest nuts, and sit and eat them on the spot. I think, indeed, that we all began by doing so, and mother did not interfere until we had each had a good breakfast; but afterwards she kept us steadily to work. I am afraid that we needed a good deal of superintendence to keep us up to the mark, but mother set us such a good example that we were shamed into doing our best. At first I was under the impression that we were to carry all the nuts back to our beech-tree home, but mother laughed when I suggested this, and told me that it was quite unnecessary to do anything of the kind. After looking about a little, she chose a long hollow under a gnarled old blackthorn trunk at the bottom of the hedge, and here, and in other similar cavities, we stored a goodly supply. Towards noon mother told us that that was enough for the day, and while she and Hazel went back home, Rusty and I decided to go for a little round on our own account.

Working down the hedge, we came upon a patch of thick brambles from which the blackberries were falling from over-ripeness. A greedy cock pheasant below was simply stuffing himself with the fallen berries and those near the ground. For a joke Rusty crept up quietly, and then, making a sudden bound, alighted almost on the handsome bird’s head. Off he went with a terrific whirr and flutter across the big meadow, and Rusty, with a malicious gleam in his eyes, sprang back to my side.

Presently we found ourselves at the coppice gate, and instinctively I stopped and gazed across the meadow towards the Hall. The wind had brought many leaves down, and the long, low, red-brick building with its steep tiled roofs, stood strongly outlined behind the thinning fringe of its oaks and elms.

I don’t know whether it was the keen, brisk air, or what, but suddenly the idea came to me to visit the old place once more, and on the spur of the moment I suggested it to Rusty.

For a moment my brother looked blank. Adventurous as he was, the idea of crossing more than a quarter of a mile of open grass land rather staggered him. You know we squirrels will make journeys of any length provided we can travel through the tree tops, and so long as a tree is handy we have no objection to short trips across country from one to another; but none of us care about open ground. We can run at a good speed for a short distance, but there is no cover in grass. There we are absolutely at the mercy of any hungry hawk, while weasels have a nasty trick of popping out suddenly from rabbit earths or drains. Then, too, there is no escape from the gun or rabbit rifle of any pot-hunting man or boy, while poaching dogs or cats are another source of really desperate peril.

However, Rusty was not the sort to think twice of danger, or to be outdared by the brother whom he had secretly despised as a ‘tame’ squirrel. I saw his teeth set and a sudden sparkle in his eye.