he abyss below. His legs began to work
like those of a swimming poodle-dog, but quicker and quicker, while his
tail, slightly elevated, spread out like a feather fan. A rabbit of the
same weight would have made the trip in about twelve seconds; the
squirrel protracted it for more than half a minute," and "landed on a
ledge of limestone, where we could see him plainly squat on his hind
legs and smooth his ruffled fur, after which he made for the creek with
a flourish of his tail, took a good drink, and scampered away into the
willow thicket."

[Illustration: FLYING SQUIRREL]

The story at first blush seems incredible, but I have no doubt our red
squirrel would have made the leap safely; then why not the great black
squirrel, since its parachute would be proportionately large?

The tails of the squirrels are broad and long and flat, not short and
small like those of gophers, chipmunks, woodchucks, and other ground
rodents, and when they leap or fall through the air the tail is arched
and rapidly vibrates. A squirrel's tail, therefore, is something more
than ornament, something more than a flag; it not only aids him in
flying, but it serves as a cloak, which he wraps about him when he
sleeps.

In making the flying leap I have described the animals' legs are widely
extended, their bodies broadened and flattened, the tail stiffened and
slightly curved, and a curious tremulous motion runs through all. It is
very obvious that a deliberate attempt is made to present the broadest
surface possible to the air, and I think a red squirrel might leap from
almost any height to the ground without serious injury. Our flying
squirrel is in no proper sense a flyer. On the ground he is more
helpless than a chipmunk, because less agile. He can only sail or slide
down a steep incline from the top of one tree to the foot of another.
The flying squirrel is active only at night; hence its large, soft eyes,
its soft fur, and its gentle, shrinking ways. It is the gentlest and
most harmless of our rodents. A pair of them for two or three
successive years had their nest behind the blinds of an upper window of
a large, unoccupied country-house near me. You could stand in the room
inside and observe the happy family through the window pane against
which their nest pressed. There on the window sill lay a pile of large,
shining chestnuts, which they were evidently holding against a time of
scarcity, as the pile did not diminish while I observed the