THE RED SQUIRREL.
" I LIE abstracted and hear beautiful tales of
things and the reasons of things ;
They are so beautiful, I nudge myself to listen." — WALT WHITMAN.
THIS morning, in the month of February, the cold is below zero. The sky is clear, the air is still, the trees crack, the snow gives way under the sleigh with a distinct crunch. All sounds are easily heard. The chirp of a kinglet the call of the chickadee, the tapping of the woodpecker, break the stillness as if all the world was dead beside. Almost within reach of my arm, perched on the end of a fir limb, is a red squirrel, or pine squirrel, or chickaree, or Seim-us Iiudsonius. By all these names he is known. His winter coat shows to advantage, the long hair on the ears especially, and some-what longer on the whole body than in summer, is silver-tipped with frost. He is making his breakfast on the tender frozen ends of the branch on which he is seated. My heart is touched by his misfortune. Only a few months ago he was