"Their mother and I used to live in those heights you see in the distance there, under that rosy cloud. But the Grey Squirrels came, and drove us out—we couldn't stand the noise they made, and their rough ways frightened us. So Nature told us about this wood, and here we feel quite safe."
"So do I," said Phil, stroking the prettiest baby Squirrel gently. "What a jolly little chap this is. I wish I could take him home with me when I go back—I s'pose I'll have to go back some day," he finished with a sigh.
The mother Squirrel fluffed out her fur in wild alarm, and
Feathertail darted forward ready to protect his family.
"How could you suggest such a thing?" he asked indignantly, when Phil had managed to convince him that he meant no harm. "It is bad enough for an ordinary Squirrel to be taken away from his forest home and shut in a small cramped prison, but for us it means almost certain death, for we cannot stand captivity…. A cousin of mine—'twas the Wind that told me—was caught by some travellers and put in a tiny cage where she had scarcely room to turn. Of course she died, and they 'couldn't think why'! I wonder if they knew how cruel they were?"
His bright little eyes were clouded with grief, and it was not until he had raced to the top of a neighbouring tree and back again that he felt better. Even then he looked uneasy when Phil fondled his babies; as to the mother Squirrel, since that unfortunate remark of his, she had been clearly anxious to get rid of him.
"We will go to the stream," said Feathertail, when he saw that her anxiety was getting too much for her. Phil longed to ask if the baby Squirrels might come as well, but wisely refrained. He was sorry to leave that cosy nest on the waving branch; next time he came, he thought, he would be careful what he said.
The stream to which Feathertail led him was bordered by drooping ferns; it was so clear that it might have been a lady's mirror but for the tiny wavelets rippling from side to side.
"Don't you hear it singing as it trickles over the stone?" asked Feathertail. "It is the same song that the Wind sings, only more low and sweet…. Listen!"
Phil could hear nothing but the rustling of the leaves about them, and the soft flow of the sparkling water; but perhaps his ears were not so keen.
The Black Squirrel sat on the edge of the bank, and dipping his nose well under the surface of the stream, drank deeply and long. Then he placed himself jauntily on his hind feet, and washed his face with his forepaws, splashing them in the stream from time to time as if he thoroughly enjoyed it.