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I
STROLLED into the forest deep one bright October day To study Nature's mode of life; to chase the cares away With something new: a picture real; the squirrel and the brook; The trees, the nuts, the fallen leaves; all pressed in memory's book. The mother squirrel, the small ones too, were busy as could be; They took the nuts for winter use, that fell from off the tree; Their mouths contained two pouches nice that served as little sacks Instead of bags that people have and carry on their backs. They gathered up the chestnuts fast and carried to a hole Where once a limb had broken off-decay then took its toll, Which pleased the squirrels with luscious food, the choice home to find; The mother managed very well, industrious, bright and kind. She taught her children how to save, for days of storm and cold; Besides, she said, perhaps a time when all were getting old, A little something thus laid by would keep them plump and fat, When otherwise, they might be weak, nor well escape the cat. And so she kept them sleek and nice; new sets of furs were brought By Nature for their little backs, and thus the cold they fought; Their eyes were bright, their teeth were sharp, their little claws were trim And helped them up and down the tree as jolly as a pin. She had not seen me as I sat, on that old log of autumn time; Perhaps as I was there alone to simply learn her little rhyme; But when at last she saw me there, contention seemed her only bone; She sputtering, climbed high up the tree, and plainly said; " Go home; go home!" |
