THE Snow-moon was waning, the Hunger-moon at hand, when Bannertail met with another adventure. He had gone far off to the pine woods of a deep glen, searching for cones, when he was set on by a Redsquirrel. Flouncing over the plumy boughs it came, chattering: "Squat, squat, quit, quit, quit"—"git, git, git"—and each moment seemed more inclined to make a tooth-and-nail attack on Bannertail. And he, what had he to fear? Was he not bigger and stronger than the Red-headed One? Yes, very well able to overmatch him in fight, but his position was much like that of a grown man who is assailed by a blackguard boy. There is no glory in the fight, if it comes to that. There is much unpleasant publicity, and the man usually decides that it is better to ignore the insult and retreat. This was Bannertail's position exactly. He hated a row—most wild things do—it brings them into notice of the very creatures they wish to avoid. Besides, the Redsquirrel was not without some justification, for these were his pine-trees by right of long possession. Bannertail, without touch of violence or fear of it, yielded to the inward impulses, yielded and retreated, closely pursued by the Redsquirrel, who kept just out of reach, but worked himself up into a still noisier rage as he saw the invader draw off. It was characteristic of the Red One that he did not stop at the border of his own range but followed right into the hickory country, shrieking: "Git, git, ye brute ye, ye brute ye, git!" with insolence born of his success, though its real explanation was beyond him.