Wood-folk comedies

by William J. Long

Starting at a distance, for a chipmunk wants no sign of occupation near his den, he runs a slanting shaft down to the concealed hollow, throwing the earth from his excavation in a loose heap about the spot where he began to dig. Later he may scatter that heap if it looks conspicuous; but since he does not intend to use this shaft as an entrance, the disturbed earth gives him little concern. Next he modifies the natural hollow by a day’s or a week’s operations, making it over into a living room with two or three adjacent storerooms; and the final step is to run a tunnel from the finished den upward to the air. The first or exploration shaft is as straight as he can make it; but the new tunnel takes a devious course, following under roots where digging is very easy or where there is sometimes no digging at all. Also it heads well away from the den, so that when it reaches the surface the outlet is far from the scene of the first digging. A part of the earth from this tunnel is thrown back into the den, and from there is pushed into the working shaft, which is always filled solidly from end to end. The finished den has but one entrance, therefore; and there is no earth about the doorway for the simple reason that the whole tunnel was excavated from below.

Such is the process in our cleared lands, where Chick’weesep’s doorway may be in the middle of a lawn, while his storehouse is far away in a hidden drain or under a buried bowlder. On such lands, if you find the squirrel’s doorway and search the ground in all directions, you may discover at a considerable distance a flattened heap of earth, which will mean nothing unless you know the chipmunk’s secret. That heap speaks of the time when he ran an exploration shaft down to his unseen den; it tells also, if you listen to it, of the sad way in which civilization has interfered with the perfection of the squirrel’s craft. He must leave that plain sign of his work and presence (unwillingly, I think) because so much clearing has been done without consulting his small needs that he can find no convenient place to hide a quantity of fresh earth.

In the deep woods, where Chick’weesep’s ancestors learned to construct winter quarters, such a telltale sign is never found. The forest floor offers him a thousand hiding places; before beginning to dig he slips under a root or rock or moldering log, and from there runs a shaft to his objective point. The earth from his digging is packed away under mossy logs, where no eyes but his ever see it; and when the den is ready the working shaft is filled by earth from a new tunnel, as Chick’weesep bores his way toward the point where he intends to have his doorway. Like the beaver, he seems to have a perfect sense of direction; engineering his tunnel under the earth, turning this way or that to follow a friendly root, he seems to know precisely where he is coming out. From watching him several times when he was busy about his den, I think that he selects a spot for his doorway before starting his tunnel; but that is a doubtful matter of which no man has any assurance.

To fashion such a den and fill its storeroom to overflowing in the beautiful autumn days must be a joyous experience, I fancy, even to an unthinking squirrel. On a farm the happiest days of the year are not those of spring planting (for sowing of seeds is an artificial work, the result of our thought and calculation), but rather in the rewardful autumn, when man’s primitive instincts are stirred as he gathers the fruits of the earth into his winter storehouse. Likewise in the wilderness, the happiest days which ever come to a man are those in which he builds a shack by the labor of his hands, fashions a rude fireplace of rock or clay, lays in his provisions, and then, with eager anticipation of snappy days afield or stormy nights before the fire, looks upon his finished work and says in his heart, “Now welcome, winter!” If spoiled man can feel this instinctive joy of providing for creature comfort, why not an unspoiled squirrel also? In the woods all natural creatures, man included, seem to be made of the same happy, elemental stuff.

Once the den is ready, with living quarters, dry nest for sleeping, and a storeroom filled with the seeds he likes best, Chick’weesep faces the winter with a merry heart. He can commiserate the deer or the moose birds, who must be abroad in all weather and ofttimes hungry; or can chuckle at the sleepyhead bears, who must spend all winter days in oblivion, having a den but no store of food, and who miss the enjoyment of eating and of roaming abroad when the weather is fine. From the secret entrance to his den a tunnel pushes outward under the snowdrifts, a cunning runway that hides beneath twisted roots before it ventures up to the surface. On every pleasant day Chick’weesep makes use of that outlet to enjoy the world from the sunny side of a ledge. There he can safely watch all that passes in the woods; while rock ferns that are always green serve to hide him or to rest his eyes from the blinding glare of sunlight on the snow. When storms are loosed and the great trees bend to the driving sleet, he bides snug in his den underground, and there eats till he grows sleepy or sleeps till he grows hungry, or until something calls him with information that the sun is shining and wood folk are passing in the upper world once more.

A chipmunk’s eating, therefore, however enjoyable it may be on stormy days, is not by any means his sole winter occupation. It is merely one element in a season that has many pleasures, and it brings out this curious habit: Chick’weesep eats the softest of his grains first, as a farmer begins with the mellowest of his apples, reserving the hardest till the end. To judge from dens I have examined, his storehouse has two or more compartments, one near the frost line, another below; and in the colder room, chilled by glittering ice crystals, he seems to keep such of his foods as are most easily spoiled. Meanwhile his living quarters are beyond the line of frost, where, thanks to his dry nest and his fur jacket, he is always comfortably warm. Should worst come to worst, and his store prove too small for a long winter, even then he has this quieting assurance: like the gray squirrel, who has alternate periods of winter activity and retirement, he can curl up in his nest and sleep for a week or a month, if need be, until spring returns to melt the snows, and he can once more find a living in the awakening woods.

Altogether a happy kind of a life, one must think, and Chick’weesep gives the impression of making endless comedy of it. He is a most entertaining actor, especially when he shows his curiosity, which is so great that he will stop his work or rush out of his den to see any large animal or small bird that is making commotion in the quiet woods. Of all smaller animals and larger birds he is wary, since the one may turn out a weasel and the other an owl or a goshawk; and all such freebooters are dangerous to chipmunks. From a distance, as you roam the solitude, your eye happens to catch him sitting motionless on his favorite stump, where his coat blends with the sunshine and the wonderful forest colors. Heading in his direction, you aim to pass close by, but not too close, as if seeking something far ahead.

Chick’weesep watches you keenly as you draw near, and he is so pleased or excited that he cannot keep still. You see his eye sparkle, his feet dance, his body quiver, as he wavers between the lifelong habit of concealment and his evident desire to be noticed by this bold passing animal, who is surely a stranger in the woods, since his foot is noisy. On you come steadily, paying no heed to the tiny atom of life that watches you expectantly, like a child at a window who hopes to be saluted; and Chick’weesep follows you with questioning eyes till you have passed him and are going away. Up to this moment he has been half afraid you might see him; now, fearful that you will not see, he blows a sharp whistle or cries his full Indian name, Chick-chick-koo-wee-sep! to tell you that you are in his woods, and that you have passed him without a sign of recognition.

A hundred times I have had a heart-warming over that little comedy, which always follows the same course. There is the first start of surprise when the little fellow sees you, the eager look, the quivering feet, the timid expectancy; then the sharp cry as you pass with apparent indifference. And when you turn quickly, as if surprised, Chick’weesep dodges out of sight with a different cry, a cry with mingled pleasure and alarm in it; but the next moment he is peeking at you with dancing eyes from a crevice. Then, if you bide quietly where you are, he may come nearer, talking as he comes; and within the hour, should you have food that he likes, he will be sitting with entire confidence on your knee, stuffing all you offer him into his cheek pockets till they bulge as if he had the mumps, or pulling with all his might at a choice bit which you hold tightly to tease him.

A red squirrel would nip you if you teased him like that; but Chick’weesep braces himself with soft paws against the tips of your fingers, and tugs till he gets his morsel. This is the deep wilderness, where he has not been made to know the fear of man, and where he is the most lovable of all his merry tribe, excepting only Molepsis the flying squirrel.