Wood-folk comedies

by William J. Long

The point is, that when one opens his ears to the medley of calls that enliven the day or the night, he receives many an invitation which beforetime had passed over his head unheeded. Around your summer camp, for example, red squirrels are the most numerous and, as you think, the most familiar of animals; but did you ever attempt to interpret the astonishing variety of sounds which a squirrel uses habitually in the way of speech? Until you do that, Meeko the mischief-maker is a stranger to you, dwelling far on the other side of an unbridged gulf.

I do not mean that Meeko or any other animal has a language, for that is a doubtful matter; but all wild creatures communicate with others of their kind; and even when alone an animal is like a child in that he has changing moods or emotions which he expresses very plainly by modulations of his voice. So these familiar squirrels, which you hear about your camp, are not jabbering idiotically or without meaning. When angry they scold; when surprised they snicker; at other times they fling jest or repartee or abuse at one another, their voices changing noticeably with their changing moods. Now and then, as you follow Meeko to see what he is doing, he utters a long, vibrant and exultant call, in sheer delight at being alive, you think; or he stops short in a gambol and puzzles you by sitting very still, very attentive, with his nose pressed against a branch between his paws. Gone suddenly are all his jeers, his exultations, his mischief-making; he has a sober, introspective air, as if trying to remember something, or as if listening to what his other self might be saying.

If you watch Meeko’s eye at such a moment, noting its telltale lights, you will have a different opinion of his silence. He is listening, indeed, but to something so fine or distant that he cannot be quite sure what it is, or rather what it says. Therefore does he use the branch as a sounding board, pressing nose or teeth against it to catch the faint vibrations in a way to help his ears, just as woodpeckers use their tongues for the same purpose of better hearing. There! you hear the sound faintly now, and Meeko hears it distinctly enough to understand it, if one may judge by his actions. It comes from another squirrel out yonder, a truculent fellow, who is proclaiming his heretical opinion to the universe, and to this little dogmatist in particular.

Watch Meeko now; see his silent absorption change to violent rage. He barks; he seems to curse in his own way; he springs up and down on the same spot, like a boastful Quebec lumberman who jumps on his hat to work himself up to the fighting pitch. Out of breath, he stops a moment to listen, to ascertain whether he has silenced his opponent. A jeer floats in from the distance. Meeko says, “Kilch-kilch! I’ll show that impostor; I’ll teach him a lesson,” and away he goes headlong. To follow him is to witness a characteristic squirrel argument, a challenge, a rush, an upset, a furious chase up and down the swaying branches, till your head grows dizzy in following it. And then one long, triumphant yell to proclaim that another heresy is silenced forever.

Many times I have thus watched Meeko as he listened to something I could not at first hear; and almost invariably, when I have followed his rush, I have found him either berating some passing animal much bigger than himself or engaged in a hurry-scurry kind of argument with another squirrel.

Once I saw that the fellow who dared dispute Meeko’s doctrine was a very little squirrel, not big enough to hold opinion of his own, much less to challenge a quidnunc. He was bowled over at the first charge, and fell to the ground, where he darted off at top speed, doubling and dodging here, there, anywhere for a quiet life. Hot at his heels followed the irate Meeko, berating him like a pirate, giving him no chance to retract his impudence. The little fellow whisked up a tree at last, and squirmed into a knothole that seemed too small for any squirrel. Meeko was so close behind that nose met tail; but wriggle as he would, he could not get halfway into the knothole. It was an impossible squeeze for a squirrel of his bulk. As he worked and scolded himself into a passion, every now and then came a hollow, muffled snicker from within the doorway, which seemed to drive Meeko frantic.

He gave up the attempt after a time, and headed down the tree, threatening vengeance as he went. Before he was halfway to the ground the little fellow put his head out and repeated his original opinion, which started the explosive argument all over again. Eight times, while I watched, Meeko went away fuming, after vainly trying to force himself into the knothole; and every time Meekosis, as Simmo calls the little squirrel, came to the doorway to jibe at him, bringing him back in a fury that ran the gamut from volubility to speechlessness. The comedy was still running when lengthening shadows called me away to the trout pool, where my supper needed catching.

That same pool recalls another wood-folk comedy, none the less amusing because two of the actors were serious as owls when they played it out. Simmo, the Indian, and I were on our homeward way through the wilderness when we came to a beautiful place on the river, and camped there, day after heavenly day, until my vacation drew to an end. Then, because trout were plentiful at the mouth of a cold brook, I broke my rule of catching only enough for my table, and decided to take a few good fish as a thank-offering to some people who had been kind to me, a stranger. Two mornings and evenings I whipped the pools, ignoring small rises, striking only at the big fellows; and at dusk of the second day I packed away my catch and my rod with a sigh of heartfelt content. It was my last fishing for the year. There were only fifteen fish to show for it; but they weighed full thirty pounds, all clean, silvery, beautiful trout. Each one was wiped dry for keeping, wrapped separately in dried moss, and set away under a rock by a cold spring.

Early next morning Simmo went to fetch one of the trout for breakfast. I was stirring the fire when I heard him calling, “Come here! Oh, by cosh, come here!” and ran to find him standing open-mouthed over the storehouse, his eyes like gimlets, a blank, utterly bewildered expression spread all over his dark face. There was not a fish left, and not a sign on the hard soil to tell who had taken them.

We gave up the puzzle and went back to a meager breakfast, wagging our heads soberly. A bear or a lynx would have left plenty of signs for us to read. As we were eating, I saw a mink dodging along the shore, humping his back in true weasel fashion, as if in a great hurry. He disappeared under a root, all but his tail, and seemed to be very busy about something. When he backed out he was dragging a big trout.