A Fox-Squirrel in a Fix.

François soon finished dressing his pigeons, and plunged them into the boiling-water. A piece of dried meat was added, and then some salt and pepper, drawn from the store-bag, for it was the intention of François to make pigeon-soup. He next proceeded to beat up a little flour with water, in order to give consistency to the soup.

“What a pity,” said he, “we have no vegetables!”

“Hold!” cried Lucien, who overheard him. “There appears to be a variety of green stuff in this neighbourhood. Let me see what can be done.”

So saying, Lucien walked about the glade with his eyes bent upon the ground. He seemed to find nothing among the grass and herbs that would do; and presently he strayed off among trees, towards the banks of a little stream that ran close by. In a few minutes he was seen returning with both his hands full of vegetables. He made no remark, but flung them down before François. There were two species—one that resembled a small turnip, and, in fact, was the Indian turnip (psoralea esculenta), while the other was the wild onion found in many parts of America.

“Ha!” cried François, who at once recognised them, “what luck! pomme-blanche, and wild onions too, as I live! Now I shall make a soup worth tasting.”

And he proceeded with great glee to cut up the vegetables, and fling them into the steaming kettle.

In a short while the meat and pigeons were boiled, and the soup was ready. The kettle was taken from the crane; and the three brothers, seating themselves on the grass, filled their tin cups, and set to eating. They had brought a supply of hard bread to last for a few days. When that should give out, they would draw upon their bag of flour; and when this, too, should be exhausted, it was their intention to go without bread altogether, as they had often done on like excursions before.

While thus enjoying their pigeon-soup and picking the bones of the plump birds, the attention of all three was suddenly arrested by a movement near one side of the glade. They had just caught a glimpse of something that looked like a flash of yellow light shooting up in a straight direction from the ground.

All three guessed what it was—the lightning passage of a squirrel up the trunk of a tree; and there was the animal itself, clinging flat against the bark, having paused a moment—as is usual with squirrels—before making another rush upward.

“Oh!” cried Lucien, in a suppressed voice, “it is a fox-squirrel, and such a beauty! See! it is marked like a tortoise-shell cat! Papa would give twenty dollars for such a skin.”

“He shall have it for far less,” rejoined François, stealing towards his gun.

“Stop, François!” said Lucien. “Let Basil try it with his rifle—he is a surer shot than you.”

“Very well,” replied François; “but if he should miss, it’s no harm for me to be ready.”

Basil had already risen, and was silently making for the guns. On reaching them, he took the long rifle, and turned in the direction of the game. At the same moment François armed himself with his double-barrel.

The tree up which the squirrel had run was what is termed a “dead-wood.” It was a decaying tulip-tree—scathed by lightning or storm—and stood somewhat apart from the others, out in the open ground. There was little else standing but the naked trunks, which rose like a column to the height of sixty feet. The branches had all been swept away by the wind, with one exception; and this was a long limb that stretched diagonally upward from the top of the trunk. The limb, although crooked and forking in several places, was not very thick. It was without twigs or leaves, being of course, like the tree itself, dead.

Whilst Basil and François were preparing their guns, the squirrel had made a second rush to the top of this limb; where it sat itself down in a fork, and appeared to contemplate the setting sun. No better mark could have been desired for a shot, provided they could get near enough; and that they were likely to do, for the little animal did not appear to regard the presence either of them or their horses—thus showing that it had never been hunted. With its bushy tail erect, and spread like a fan, it sat upon its haunches, appearing to enjoy the warm beams that came from the west.

The boys moved softly around the glade, Basil going foremost. When within range, as he thought, he raised his rifle, levelled it, and was about to pull trigger, when the squirrel, that up to this moment had not noticed him, gave a sudden start, dropped its tail, and ran down the limb as if terrified. It did not stop until it had reached the main trunk. There it halted, a foot or two from the head, and lay flat against the bark.

What could have alarmed it? Not the boys, for it had not minded them before; moreover, it still kept upon their side of the tree, offering as fair a mark as ever. Had it feared them it would, as all squirrels do, have hidden from them behind the trunk. But no, it was not afraid of them; for, as it lay horizontally along the bark, its head was turned upward, and showed, by a peculiar motion, that it dreaded some enemy from above. And this was the fact, for high up and directly over the tree, a large bird of prey was seen circling in the air.

“Hold!” whispered Lucien, laying his hand upon Basil’s arm—“hold, brother! it is the red-tailed hawk. See, he is going to swoop down. Let us watch him.”

Basil lowered his rifle, and all three stood waiting. A leafy branch was over their heads, so that the bird did not see them, or, intent upon striking his prey, did not care for their presence at the moment.

Lucien had scarcely spoken, when the hawk, that had hitherto been sailing with his broad wings expanded, suddenly narrowed his tail, drew in his wings, and came down with a loud “whish–sh–sh!” He dropped almost perpendicularly, grazing the squirrel so closely, that all three looked for it in his talons as he flew off again. Not so, however. The squirrel had been upon his guard; and, as the hawk swooped down, had doubled around the tree with the quickness of a flash of lightning. By the guidance of his rudder-like tail the hawk soon turned, and flew round to that side of the tree on which the squirrel had now settled. A few strokes of his powerful wings soon enabled him to reach the proper elevation; and again he swooped downward at his intended victim. The squirrel avoided him as before, and came back on the other side of the trunk. Again the hawk doubled, rose, darted downward at his prey, missed it, and swept on. A fourth attempt met with like success, and the bird once more flew back into the air, but still kept circling over the tree.

“It’s a wonder old foxy doesn’t take to another tree,” muttered François; “one with branches enough to shelter him, or to his own tree where his hole is. There he would be safe.”

“That’s exactly what he wishes to do,” replied Lucien. “But see! his enemy is directly over him. There’s no tree near enough, and if he attempted to run along the open ground, the hawk would be down upon him like a shot. You saw how suddenly he dropped before?”

This was, in fact, the situation in which the squirrel was. It was evident he regarded the trees at some distance with a wistful and anxious look; for, although he had succeeded so far in baffling his enemy, he still appeared to suffer from suspense and fear.

As soon as the hawk had risen a dozen yards or so above the tree, he again commenced wheeling in circles, uttering a strange cry as he flew. It was not a scream—as is often heard with these birds—but a cry of different import, as if a call to some comrade. It was so in fact, for in a moment it was answered from a distant part of the woods; and the next moment, another hawk—red-tailed like himself, but much larger—was seen soaring upwards. This was evidently his mate—for the female of these birds is always much larger than the males. The two soon came together, and wheeled above the tree, crossing each other’s orbit, and looking downward. The squirrel now appeared doubly terrified—for he well knew their intent. He began to run around the trunk, looking outward at intervals, as though he intended to leap off and take to the thick woods.

The hawks did not allow him long time to make up his mind. The smaller one swooped first, but missed the squirrel as before, driving him around the trunk. There the frightened creature had scarcely halted, when the great hen-hawk came at him with a whistling rush, and sent him back to the other side. The male bird had by this time turned and now darted with such suddenness and precision, that the squirrel, unable to pass round the tree again, sprang off into the air. Guided by his broad tail the hawk followed, and before the squirrel could reach the ground, the bird was seen to strike. Then with a loud scream he rose into the air, with the squirrel struggling in his talons.

His triumph was a short one. The crack of a shot gun was heard from behind, and both hawk and squirrel fell heavily to the earth. Another crack followed, almost instantaneously, and his mate, the great hen-hawk, came tumbling down with a broken wing, and fluttered over the grass, screaming like a cat. She was soon silenced by a stroke from the butt of François’ gun—both barrels of which were now empty—for it was François that had done the business for the red-tails.

What was most singular of all, the squirrel was not killed either by the shot or the fall. On the contrary, as Lucien was deliberately stooping to pick it up—congratulating himself all the while upon his prize—it suddenly made a spring, shook itself clear of the claws of the dead hawk; and, streaking off into the woods, ran up a tall tree. All three followed as fast as they could run; but on reaching the tree—an oak five feet thick—they saw, to their mortification, the squirrel’s hole about fifty feet from the ground, which, of course, brought that squirrel hunt to its termination.