The life story of a squirrel

by T. C. Bridges

‘He’s sure to be in one of the holes in the trunk,’ replied more sharply pitched tones which I recognized at once as those of the high-collared boy whose mark I still bore in the shape of a shot hole in one ear. ‘Climb up, Tompkins, and see.’

‘Climb! Thank’ee, sir. I wasn’t engaged to break my neck climbing trees—not at my age. Tell you what, sir. I’ll go on with the gun. You can wait here quietly, and after a bit he’s sure to come out, and then you can shoot him.’

‘All right,’ answered the boy, and we plainly heard Tompkins stamping off. Cob was crazy to get away and go in search of his wife and family, but the boy below, who had about as much idea of woodcraft as a frog has of flying, made such a noise moving from one foot to the other, breathing hard and shifting his rifle about, that even a hedgehog would have known better than to take the chances of showing himself.

His patience was about on a par with his other performances, for in less than five minutes he became tired of waiting, and moved off after the keeper.

But we heard no more shots. Bad news spreads like magic in a wood, and by this time every squirrel of the forty or fifty who inhabited our coppice was snug under cover, and it would have taken better eyes than those of Ginger or his young friend to find us. After another half hour or so we heard the far gate slam to, and knew that danger was over—at least, for the present. Then Cob went off as hard as his legs would carry him, and later on I was delighted to hear that he had found Hazel and his two young ones quite safe and unhurt.

To say that we were furious at this wanton massacre is to put our feelings very mildly. From time out of mind the lives of the squirrels on the Hall estate had been sacred, and except when trespassing louts—such as those who had caused the death of my father—had attacked us we had lived safe and happy from one generation to another.

As a race, we squirrels are very conservative and home loving. So long as we are not molested, the same families and their children remain in the same wood year after year, never emigrating unless driven to do so by over-population or lack of food. If, on the other hand, the squirrels in any particular locality are regularly persecuted by man, always their worst enemy, the survivors will very soon clear out completely. There are to-day whole tracts of beautiful beech woods in Buckinghamshire, where, though food is perhaps as plentiful as anywhere else in England, yet hardly a squirrel is to be seen. Our race has been so harried that they have left altogether. Modern high preserving is what we unlucky squirrels cannot stand. Where the owner’s one idea is to get as large a head of pheasants as the coverts can possibly carry, every other woodland creature goes to the wall, and the keepers shoot us down as mercilessly as they kill kestrels, owls, jays, hedgehogs, and a dozen other harmless birds and beasts.

Very soon it became clear that the new tenant of the Hall had declared war against us. The pheasants, of which an immense number had been turned down, were his only care. He used to come and strut about while Tompkins was feeding them. As Walnut said, he only needed a long tail and a few feathers to resemble exactly a stupid old, stuck-up cock-pheasant himself.

Again and again during that August Tompkins with his twelve bore, and the band-box boy with a small repeating rifle, invaded the wood and fired indiscriminately at every squirrel they could set eyes on. But, as you may imagine, we very soon learnt caution, and when news of their approach was signalled from tree to tree, every squirrel in the coppice took instant cover. Still, our enemies occasionally succeeded in cutting off one of our number in some tree where total concealment was impossible, and then the cruel little brute of a boy would make him a target for his tiny bullets, often inflicting half a dozen wounds before a vital spot was struck. Then at last the tightly-clutching claws would slowly relax, and the poor, bleeding little body come thudding down from bough to bough, to be pounced on by the young murderer with a yell of fiendish glee.