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 rear rather than his front.  “Come if you dare,” he says, and his attitude makes even the farm-dog pause.  After a few encounters of this kind, and if you entertain the usual hostility towards him, your mode of attack will speedily resolve itself into moving about him in a circle, the radius of which will be the exact distance at which you can hurl a stone with accuracy and effect.

He has a secret to keep and knows it, and is careful not to betray himself until he can do so with the most telling effect.  I have known him to preserve his serenity even when caught in a steel trap, and look the very picture of injured innocence, manoeuvring carefully and deliberately to extricate his foot from the grasp of the naughty jaws.  Do not by any means take pity on him, and lend a helping hand!