And see him flashing in his toil,
While frost like snow encrusts the soil.
With tail above his back, he sails
Along the angles of the rails,
Content to gain two rods in three,
And have sure highway from his tree.
Dear is the old-time squirrel way,
With mosses green and lichens gray,—
The straggling fence, that girds the hill,
And wanders through the pine woods still.