els would come to the cabin windows and pat against them with
their tiny paws. They were begging for something to eat, and if a door
or window were left open a minute it was good-by to anything found on
the table. Bread, cake, or even fruit was a temptation not to be
resisted. One would grab the prize and dart up the trunk of a big pine
tree with the whole tribe hot-footing it right after him. One bold
fellow waylaid me one morning when I opened the door, and bounced up on
the step and into the kitchen. I shoved him off the cabinet, and he
jumped on top of the stove. That wasn't hot enough to burn him but
enough to make him good and mad, so he scrambled to my shoulder, ran
down my arm, and sank his teeth in my hand. Then he ran up to the top of
the shelves and sat there chattering and scolding until the Chief came
home and gave him the bum's rush. This same fellow bit the Chief, too;
but I always felt _he_ had it coming to him. White Mountain had a glass
jar of pinon nuts, and he would hold them while the squirrels came and
packed their jaws full. They looked too comical with their faces puffed
up like little boys with mumps. When "Bunty" came for his share, the
Chief placed his hand tightly over the top, just to tease him. He wanted
to see what would happen. He found out. Bunty ran his paws over the
slick surface of the jar two or three times, but couldn't find any way
to reach the tempting nuts. He stopped and thought about the situation a
while, then it seemed to dawn on him that he was the victim of a
practical joke. All at once he jumped on the Chief's hand, buried his
teeth in his thumb, then hopped to a lumber pile and waited for
developments. He got the nuts, jar and all, right at his head. He
side-stepped the assault and gloated over his store of pinons the rest
of the afternoon.

It had been an off year for pinons, so boxes were put up in sheltered
nooks around the park and the rangers always put food into them while
making patrols. I carried my pockets full of peanuts while riding the
trails, and miles from Headquarters the squirrels learned to watch for
me. I learned to look out for them also, after one had dropped from an
overhanging bough to the flank of a sensitive horse I was riding. The
Fred Harvey boys purchased a hundred pounds of peanuts for the little
fellows, and the animals also learned to beg from tourists. All a
squirrel had to do in order to keep well stuffed was to sit up in the
middle of the