bushel of corncobs, some of them two or three years old, which he
had stolen from a cornfield near by in the early autumn mornings.
With characteristic improvidence he had fallen to eating the corn
while yet there was plenty more to be gathered. In consequence he
was hungry before February was half over, and living by his wits,
like his brother of the wilderness.

The other squirrels soon noticed his journeys to my window, and
presently they too came for their share. Spite of his fury in
driving them away, they managed in twenty ways to circumvent him.
It was most interesting, while he sat on my window-sill eating
peanuts, to see the nose and eyes of another squirrel peering
over the crotch of the nearest tree, watching the proceedings
from his hiding place. Then I would give Meeko five or six
peanuts at once. Instantly the old hiding instinct would come
back; he would start away, taking as much of his store as he
could carry with him. The moment he was gone, out would come a
squirrel--sometimes two or three from their concealment--and
carry off all the peanuts that remained.

Meeko's wrath when he returned was most comical. The Indian
legend is true as gospel to squirrel nature. If he returned
unexpectedly and caught one of the intruders, there was always a
furious chase and a deal of scolding and squirrel jabber before
peace was restored and the peanuts eaten.

Once, when he had hidden a dozen or more nuts in the broken
linden branch, a very small squirrel came prowling along and
discovered the store. In an instant he was all alertness,
peeking, listening, exploring, till quite sure that the coast was