After this day I found that Rusty treated me with far more consideration than he had ever shown before. He dropped his jeers about ‘tame’ squirrels, and showed in his silent way that he was pleased to have my company in his wanderings abroad. I forgot to say that, though his brush looked a little lopsided for a time, the hair soon grew again, while my wound healed rapidly; but I still have a small hole through the left ear where the shot passed, to remind me of my narrow escape.
For the next few weeks mother kept us very busy, helping her to collect winter stores. These consisted almost entirely of hazel-nuts, acorns, and beech-mast, all of which were very plentiful. We made small hoards in many different places, a very necessary precaution, for if—to use Jack’s expression—we were to put all our eggs in one basket, we should stand a very good chance of starving in hard weather. There are plenty of thieves in the woods. Rats and mice are the worst—absolutely conscienceless, both of them. Then there are the nut-hatches, who have a wonderful trick of ferreting out nuts hidden in holes in timber. Again, snow may cover a ground-hoard too deep to reach it, or even hide it altogether, so that it is impossible to find it at all. People who abuse us, because we occasionally do a little pruning among the tips of the evergreens, should remember that we are the greatest planters in the country. I suppose that quite one in three of the ancient oaks that England is so proud of have sprung from acorns hidden by squirrels in autumn, and either lost or not needed during the winter. So, too, have countless beech-trees and nut-bushes, and not a few pines and firs into the bargain.
As we worked at our stores we often met others of our race intent upon similar business. The nuts of our coppice were famous for a long way round, and were so plentiful that there was enough for fifty families if they cared to come for them. We enjoyed seeing these visitors, and had great games with them.
And so day by day, as the leaves fell and the night frosts became more frequent and more sharp, we worked and played and generally enjoyed life quite undisturbed by any outside interference.
CHAPTER VII
THE GREY TERROR
Gales and cold rain prevailing, we spent much of our time indoors, while the wind roared through the coppice, and clouds of dead leaves whirled through the air, settling in rustling drifts in every hollow. The bracken was long ago brown and dead, but the blackberry leaves, though purpled by the frost, still clung with their accustomed obstinacy to the stalks, and provided thick cover for the pheasants. The old beech-trees were nearly bare, and, indeed, all the trees except the evergreens, especially those on the west side of the wood, had lost their leaves; only the oaks had foliage still to boast of, and most of this was brown and withered.
But it was only November, and we young ones had as yet no idea of retiring for the winter. On fine days, especially when frost was in the air, we were as frisky as ever, and had magnificent games among the heaps of dead leaves. It was the greatest fun possible to take running headers from the long, bare tips of the beech boughs, falling on the soft, elastic cushion of leaves, in which one completely disappeared, just as a water-rat does in a pond. Under the leaves the ground was still thick with ripe beech-mast, so there was no need as yet to infringe upon our winter stores. There were pine-cones, too, by way of change, and fallen hazel-nuts, though these were getting scarce now that not only we but our distant cousins, the dormice, had been getting in winter stores.
Our own preparations for winter were quite complete. The last piece of work had been to line our home thoroughly with dry moss, and partially to stop up the entrance which had been so large that, when the wind blew that way, it made cold draughts whistle round inside. For this work we young ones collected the material while mother did the building, and Rusty and I gathered useful hints for the future.
All these days, when the air was still, or the wind blew from the direction of the Hall, we could hear in the distance the clink, clink of axes—a novel sound in this country-side, where the Squire and his forebears before him had had the true Englishman’s love of timber, and thought not twice but many times before cutting down a single tree. But for a long time our solitude was not invaded, except by a few school-children picking late blackberries or nuts, or a labourer returning from his work along the wood-path. Then, one fine morning early in November, when Rusty and I were having our usual morning scramble, the sharp report of a gun sent us skurrying to the nearest refuge, which happened to be a tall fir-tree not far from the coppice gate. Bang again!—this time closer. Rusty looked out but dodged back with great rapidity. He intimated to me that the young murderer from the Hall had appeared and that he, Rusty, didn’t mean to move until he disappeared.