LITTLE MITCHELL GOES TO BOSTON

No doubt Little Mitchell was glad enough to go to sleep that night in a box that stayed still instead of waggling about as it had done for so long a time on the train.

It was a very hot night, although rather late in the season for such warm weather in Hartford. It was so warm that the lady did not like to shut Little Mitchell up in his box, even though it had so many holes in it. So she left the cover off, and just before going to bed she looked in to see how he was getting along.

Well, there he lay, on his back, with his head resting on the edge of the box and his arms up over his head, for all the world like a hot, tired, human little baby.

He looked so cunning that the lady called some of her friends to see him; but by that time the light had waked him up, and he stretched and yawned and curled up after the usual fashion of squirrels when they go to sleep.

He was up bright and early next morning, racing about the room, playing hide-and-seek with the lady under the bed-clothes, and having a grand time.

The lady’s friend thought his little box too close and small for him, and gave him a nice large basket; but he did not like to sleep in that at all, and cried and scratched so when he was put in to take a nap that the lady let him out. And then what do you think he did?

Why, he ran straight to his own little box and crept in and curled up and went to sleep there.

But first he made a visit into the big world. He went into the sitting-room, where there were ever so many tables and chairs for him to examine, and, best of all, a wide couch with many big soft pillows on it; and behind these pillows he would hide, and jump out at anybody’s fingers that came that way,—for all the world like a playful kitten.

He had a fine time playing with the lady’s friends behind the pillows; and finally he climbed up the nice soft coat which her friend the gentleman who lived there had on, and got into his coat-pocket, and would not come out. It was cosey and dark there, and he liked it; and when anybody put in a hand to take him out, he would scream and nip at their fingers.

And this, my dears, was not playing at all,—it was real genuine naughtiness; for when he played he was careful never really to nip anybody,—he only made believe, you know.

Well, the gentleman who lived there let him stay in his pocket until he was ready to go down town; then he called the lady, and she put in her hand, and Little Mitchell jumped at it and growled, but when he found whose hand it was he did not nip at all,—he would no more hurt his lady than he would hurt himself, no matter how naughty he felt.

Well, the lady wanted to go away for a little while; so she put him into his box,—which was not an easy matter, for as fast as she got him in one side he squirmed out at the other, and screamed, and was very naughty indeed.

Finally she got him in, and fastened the cover; but he acted so that she finally took him out and fastened him into the basket.

When she got back, what do you think? Little Mitchell was not in the basket! He had gnawed a naughty great hole right through the pretty new basket, and had got out and was hiding in the closet in the folds of a dress that was hanging there.

The next time he was missing, somebody found him among the papers in the bottom of a scrap-basket, where he sat, jumping at any strange fingers that came his way, and nipping them, and growling like a bad little bear, until his lady came and fished him out, screaming and squirming, but not nipping.

Why do you suppose the gentle, timid little Baby Mitchell had all at once become such a naughty, self-willed squirrel?

What shall I do with him? thought the lady. She was afraid he would gnaw her friend’s furniture, and do all sorts of mischievous things; so whenever she was not there to take care of him, she had to keep him shut up in his little box, which was fast getting to be too small for him.

One morning, as he sat on the window-sill eating a nut, he had a visit.

Along came a big reddish yellowish squirrel, as large as a full-grown gray one, but all fluffy,—a very handsome, afraid-of-nobody sort of fellow, who sat on the window-sill on the other side of the wire screen, and looked in at Little Mitchell.

How do you suppose Little Mitchell received this pretty visitor? He just dropped his nut with a squeal, and scampered off as if the old cat were after him, and went and hid in the corner under the table.

You wouldn’t consider that very good manners, would you? But then, you see, he was really only a baby, and had not yet learned how to behave.

There were a great many squirrels about the lady’s friend’s place. The grounds were large, with fine big trees and wide lawns,—just the kind of place squirrels like, for nobody can shoot them there, and they know it.

So all about were squirrels,—little red fellows, and big gray fellows, and once in a while a big, tawny fluffy fellow such as came to visit Little Mitchell. Well, these squirrels played a great deal, scampering about the lawn and racing over the branches of the trees, which made bridges for them high up in the air. And oh, how they would jump! It was enough to make one dizzy to look at them.

But when the chestnuts that grew on the big trees back of the house were ripe, then was the time of joy for all these squirrels.

They had their own trouble in getting their share of the nuts,—what with the boys and all the other people who wanted them,—but you may be sure the squirrels got more than anybody else.

There were so many squirrels hunting for nuts!—and I am sorry to say they were not all as honest as they might have been.

The little red squirrels were the quickest, and got the most nuts; but they didn’t keep the most, because there were those rascally gray squirrels, which were nimble-witted if they were not nimble-footed.

You know what the squirrels do with their nuts. They hide them. If they do not find a good place in a hollow tree or somewhere, then they just dig a little hole and bury the nut in the ground.

One day Little Mitchell’s lady was sitting by a window that looked out on the lawn at the back of the house, and this is what she saw.

Along came a little red squirrel with a nut in his mouth. He dug a hole in the ground with his little paws, very fast indeed. Then he tucked the nut in, covered it up, and patted the dirt and grass all down nice and smooth over it.

This done, he scampered off and got another nut and buried it in the same way, and then another and another, until he had planted quite a space with his nuts. Then off he went, and I am sure you could not have found one of those nuts, he had hidden them so cleverly, patting the earth and grass down over them, so that the places where they were did not show at all.

But if you could not have found them, there was somebody else who could.

The little red squirrel had no sooner hidden his last nut and gone off, than along came a big gray squirrel. Hop, hop, he came, his nose to the ground. Then he stopped, and began to dig very fast with his hands, and—pop!—out came one of the nuts the little red squirrel had so carefully hidden!

Then the big gray mischief bounded off to the other side of the lawn, where he dug a hole and buried that nut! His hole was deeper,—very likely too deep for the little red fellow to get his nut again, though I am not sure about that. But, anyway, the gray squirrel dug up all the poor little red fellow’s nuts, and went off and hid them, one by one, somewhere else.

The lady sat at the window and watched this mischief. Then the gray squirrel sprang up a tree and went tearing across the grove chattering like mad.

No, not because he felt so proud of what he had done, but because a blue-jay was after him.

There were blue-jays in the grove, too, and they were always tormenting the squirrels, chasing them and screaming at them as though they meant to do all sorts of things to them.

Little Mitchell did not see these things going on among his kinsfolk, because he would have nothing to do with any other squirrels. He would not even look at them; and if one came near the window where he was, he always scampered off and hid.

One day the lady took Little Mitchell down town with her. He was in his little box, you know, because she could not quite trust him to go without it. She was afraid he would jump on somebody’s back, or do something dreadful on the electric car; so she shut him up in his box, and took him along.

You couldn’t guess where they went!

It was to the photographer’s, to see if he could take Little Mitchell’s picture. The man said he would try.

They put Little Mitchell up on a stand; but he wouldn’t stay. They did everything they could think of, but it was of no use,—he wouldn’t keep still one second.

At last the lady sat down, and tried to coax him to sit still with her; but he wouldn’t do that, either. He jumped up on her shoulder, and cocked his tail up over his head,—it was quite a tail by this time,—and peeped out at the photographer, and at the queer box with a glass eye that kept pointing at him. The photographer snapped, the way they do when they take a picture; but Little Mitchell was too quick for him, and gave his tail a flirt that spoiled the picture.

Then the photographer got all ready again; but this time, just as he was about to take the picture, Little Mitchell jumped up on his lady’s head,—and that, of course, wouldn’t do.

So they got all ready again, with Little Mitchell sitting on his lady’s knee; but again he flirted off, just in time to spoil the picture.

Then he climbed up on his lady’s arm, and the photographer whistled, and Little Mitchell cocked up his tail and his ears,—just as you see him in the picture,—and listened, and in a trice the man had pressed the bulb and the restless Little Mitchell had his picture taken after all. Whether it was a success or not, you can decide for yourself; for it is the frontispiece to this very book.

When the lady was ready to go, she could not find Little Mitchell. That is because he was in the photographer’s pocket. He had climbed in there to hide away after the excitement of having his picture taken; and at last the photographer laughed, for he knew the little rascal was there all the time, and hauled him out, squirming and protesting, and handed him to the lady.

In a few days she was ready to go on to Boston; and she said she would be glad to get there, so as to have a suitable place for Little Mitchell, where he would not have to be shut up so much and yet could not get into mischief.

So they said good-bye to the Hartford friends, and started for Boston, Little Mitchell in his little box, which he did not like at all.

They had their lunch on the train, and Little Mitchell’s lunch was chestnuts and chinkapins, which he ate sitting in the corner of the seat next the window. But his lady had some very dainty sandwiches, made of thin slices of bread and butter with cream cheese between.

Presently Little Mitchell smelled the lady’s lunch, and it smelled better than his own; so he threw down his nut and ran up on her arm and tried to take her sandwich away from her.

She said no, for she feared it might not agree with him; but he said yes, he would have some, and he snatched and got a crumb which he crowded into his mouth.

The lady set him down on the seat and gave him his nut; but he threw it down, and again snatched at her sandwich. He nearly got it all this time, but the lady caught it away just in time. Then he began to scream and struggle and fight for the sandwich, until the people in the car began to laugh, and then the lady gave him a little piece, and he sat up very straight, eating cheese sandwich and looking as solemn as an owl.

When they neared Boston, there was a struggle to get him into his box; for he had decided he wouldn’t go. But this time he had to; and the minute they got off the train the lady drove to a bird-store and got a big wire squirrel-cage to take home with her.

As soon as she was in her own room, she let Little Mitchell out. Such a relief as it was to get him safely there! And such a time as he had getting acquainted with his new home! He went all about the room,—over the couch, on the table, all through the bookcase, and even into the closet where the lady hung her dresses.

Then he helped her to unpack her trunk and put everything away. Of course the way he helped was to get under her feet or her hands and be in the way all the time as much as possible.

Then the lady put him in the big new cage, and shut the door. He walked all around it, and then got into the wheel. You know the wire wheel that is always in a squirrel-cage? As soon as he moved, of course the wheel began to turn, and he began to run. The faster he ran the faster it turned, until he fairly flew.

At last his legs ached so he could run no more, and he stopped, and then the wonderful wheel stopped too; but as soon as he took a step, it turned again. Finally he jumped out; but in a few minutes he went back and tried it again. He thought it was splendid fun; and so all in a minute, without any teaching, Little Mitchell learned how to use his play-wheel.

The lady stood close by the cage and watched him, for she feared he might be frightened by it, and if he had seemed at all troubled she was ready to put in her hand and stop the wheel until he gradually learned how to use it.