In the Catskills | Page 8

the foot of a tree to take his bearings, his tail,
as he skims along, undulating behind him, and adding to the easy grace
and dignity of his movements. Or else you are first advised of his
proximity by the dropping of a false nut, or the fragments of the shucks
rattling upon the leaves. Or, again, after contemplating you awhile
unobserved, and making up his mind that you are not dangerous, he
strikes an attitude on a branch, and commences to quack and bark, with
an accompanying movement of his tail. Late in the afternoon, when the
same stillness reigns, the same scenes are repeated. There is a black
variety, quite rare, but mating freely with the gray, from which he
seems to be distinguished only in color.
The track of the red squirrel may be known by its smaller size. He is
more common and less dignified than the gray, and oftener guilty of
petty larceny about the barns and grain-fields. He is most abundant in

old barkpeelings, and low, dilapidated hemlocks, from which he makes
excursions to the fields and orchards, spinning along the tops of the
fences, which afford not only convenient lines of communication, but a
safe retreat if danger threatens. He loves to linger about the orchard;
and, sitting upright on the topmost stone in the wall, or on the tallest
stake in the fence, chipping up an apple for the seeds, his tail
conforming to the curve of his back, his paws shifting and turning the
apple, he is a pretty sight, and his bright, pert appearance atones for all
the mischief he does. At home, in the woods, he is the most frolicsome
and loquacious. The appearance of anything unusual, if, after
contemplating it a moment, he concludes it not dangerous, excites his
unbounded mirth and ridicule, and he snickers and chatters, hardly able
to contain himself; now darting up the trunk of a tree and squealing in
derision, then hopping into position on a limb and dancing to the music
of his own cackle, and all for your special benefit.
There is something very human in this apparent mirth and mockery of
the squirrels. It seems to be a sort of ironical laughter, and implies
self-conscious pride and exultation in the laugher. "What a ridiculous
thing you are, to be sure!" he seems to say; "how clumsy and awkward,
and what a poor show for a tail! Look at me, look at me!"--and he
capers about in his best style. Again, he would seem to tease you and
provoke your attention; then suddenly assumes a tone of good-natured,
childlike defiance and derision. That pretty little imp, the chipmunk,
will sit on the stone above his den and defy you, as plainly as if he said
so, to catch him before he can get into his hole if you can. You hurl a
stone at him, and "No you didn't!" comes up from the depth of his
retreat.
In February another track appears upon the snow, slender and delicate,
about a third larger than that of the gray squirrel, indicating no haste or
speed, but, on the contrary, denoting the most imperturbable ease and
leisure, the footprints so close together that the trail appears like a chain
of curiously carved links. Sir Mephitis mephitica, or, in plain English,
the skunk, has awakened from his six weeks' nap, and come out into
society again. He is a nocturnal traveler, very bold and impudent,
coming quite up to the barn and outbuildings, and sometimes taking up

his quarters for the season under the haymow. There is no such word as
hurry in his dictionary, as you may see by his path upon the snow. He
has a very sneaking, insinuating way, and goes creeping about the
fields and woods, never once in a perceptible degree altering his gait,
and, if a fence crosses his course, steers for a break or opening to avoid
climbing. He is too indolent even to dig his own hole, but appropriates
that of a woodchuck, or hunts out a crevice in the rocks, from which he
extends his rambling in all directions, preferring damp, thawy weather.
He has very little discretion or cunning, and holds a trap in utter
contempt, stepping into it as soon as beside it, relying implicitly for
defense against all forms of danger upon the unsavory punishment he is
capable of inflicting. He is quite indifferent to both man and beast, and
will not hurry himself to get out of the way of either. Walking through
the summer fields at twilight, I have come near stepping upon him, and
was much the more disturbed of the two. When attacked in the open
field he confounds the plans of his enemies by the unheard-of tactics of
exposing his