attempted it; and he never tried the return jump, which was
uphill, and which he seemed to know by instinct was too much to
attempt.

When I began feeding him, in the cold winter days, he showed me
many curious bits of his life. First I put some nuts near the top
of an old well, among the stones of which he used to hide things
in the autumn. Long after he had eaten all his store he used to
come and search the crannies among the stones to see if
perchance he had overlooked any trifles. When he found a handful
of shagbarks, one morning, in a hole only a foot below the
surface, his astonishment knew no bounds. His first thought was
that he had forgotten them all these hungry days, and he promptly
ate the biggest of the store within sight, a thing I never saw a
squirrel do before. His second thought--I could see it in his
changed attitude, his sudden creepings and hidings--was that some
other squirrel had hidden them there since his last visit.
Whereupon he carried them all off and hid them in a broken linden
branch.

Then I tossed him peanuts, throwing them first far away, then
nearer and nearer till he would come to my window-sill. And when
I woke one morning he was sitting there looking in at the window,
waiting for me to get up and bring his breakfast.

In a week he had showed me all his hiding places. The most
interesting of these was over a roofed piazza in a building near
by. He had gnawed a hole under the eaves, where it would not be
noticed, and lived there in solitary grandeur during stormy days
in a den four by eight feet, and rain-proof. In one corner was a