tremulous motion, like the quiver of wings, as they come down.
The flying squirrel's sailing down from a tree top to another
tree, fifty feet away, is but an exaggeration, due to the
membrane connecting the fore and hind legs, of what all squirrels
practice continually. I have seen a red squirrel land lightly
after jumping from an enormous height, and run away as if nothing
unusual had happened. But though I have watched them often, I
have never seen a squirrel do this except when compelled to do
so. When chased by a weasel or a marten, or when the axe beats
against the trunk below --either because the vibration hurts
their feet, or else they fear the tree is being cut down--they
use the strange gift to save their lives. But I fancy it is a
breathless experience, and they never try it for fun, though I
have seen them do all sorts of risky stumps in leaping from
branch to branch.

It is a curious fact that, though a squirrel leaps from a great
height without hesitation, it is practically impossible to make
him take a jump of a few feet to the ground. Probably the upward
rush of air, caused by falling a long distance, is necessary to
flatten the body enough to make him land lightly.


It would be interesting to know whether the raccoon also, a
large, heavy animal, has the same way of breaking his fall when
he jumps from a height. One bright moonlight night, when I ran
ahead of the dogs, I saw a big coon leap from a tree to the
ground, a distance of some thirty or forty feet. The dogs had
treed him in an evergreen, and he left them howling below while
he stole silently from branch to branch until a good distance