It is holy ground.
I wondered when the potatoes would grow.
17th—Squirrel!
What admirable eyes!
He projected his head from a hole by my window. He withdrew it a bit, and bent it to one side, as if he were solving a question or two.
Then his eyes stabbed my face.
“I’m no questionable character, Mr. Squirrel,” I said.
He hid himself altogether.
I amassed some crusts of bread by his hole, and watched humbly for his honourable presence.
He did not peep out at all.