 | Sketches of Natural History |  |
147
THE SQUIRREL.
The pretty, red Squirrel lives up in a tree,
A little blithe creature as ever can be;
He dwells in the boughs where the Stockdove broods,
Far in the shades of the green summer woods;
His food is the young juicy cones of the Pine,
And the milky Beech-nut is his bread and his wine.
In the joy of his nature he frisks with a bound
To the topmost twigs, and then down to the ground;
Then up again, like a winged thing,
And from tree to tree with a vaulting spring;
Then he sits up aloft, and looks waggish and queer,
As if he would say, “Ay, follow me here!”
And then he grows pettish, and stamps his foot;
And then independently cracks his nut;
And thus he lives the long summer thorough,
Without a care or a thought of sorrow.
A little blithe creature as ever can be;
He dwells in the boughs where the Stockdove broods,
Far in the shades of the green summer woods;
His food is the young juicy cones of the Pine,
And the milky Beech-nut is his bread and his wine.
In the joy of his nature he frisks with a bound
To the topmost twigs, and then down to the ground;
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And from tree to tree with a vaulting spring;
Then he sits up aloft, and looks waggish and queer,
As if he would say, “Ay, follow me here!”
And then he grows pettish, and stamps his foot;
And then independently cracks his nut;
And thus he lives the long summer thorough,
Without a care or a thought of sorrow.
But small as he is, he knows he may want,
In the bleak winter weather, when food is scant,
So he finds a hole in an old tree's core,
And there makes his nest, and lays up his store;
Then when cold winter comes, and the trees are bare,
When the white snow is falling, and keen is the air,
He heeds it not, as he sits by himself,
In his warm little nest, with his nuts on his shelf.
O, wise little Squirrel! no wonder that he,
In the green summer woods is as blithe as can be!
In the bleak winter weather, when food is scant,
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And there makes his nest, and lays up his store;
Then when cold winter comes, and the trees are bare,
When the white snow is falling, and keen is the air,
He heeds it not, as he sits by himself,
In his warm little nest, with his nuts on his shelf.
O, wise little Squirrel! no wonder that he,
In the green summer woods is as blithe as can be!
| Sketches of Natural History | |