bly from
their attacks. In his woods, squirrels are unusually abundant,
and in consequence their depredations are the more evident. But,
generally speaking, these animals are not sufficiently numerous
to cause any serious injury to our plantations, and the pleasure
they afford us by exhibiting their wonderful leaps and feats of
agility among the summer branches, more than repay us for their
very trifling thefts.

This gentleman had a particular reason for protecting the squirrels in
his woods. One day the gamekeeper shot a very fine one, and brought it
up to the house as a present for his master's little daughter Jane, who
was confined with a disease from which she never recovered. At first,
the child was pleased with her new plaything, but her tender heart was
pained when she saw its beautiful eyes becoming dim, and recollected
that, perhaps it had left in its nest some young ones, that were
perishing for want of its care. Her grief was increased by fancying
that, as the animal had been killed on purpose for her, she had been
the cause of its death, and though her parents said all they could to
comfort her, they could hardly make her believe that she was not to
blame; for when people are very ill they often have strange fancies.

Poor little Jane died a few days after, and almost the last words she
spoke were, "Papa, don't let Harvey kill any more squirrels." Her
father carefully attended to this request of his darling little
girl--his only child--the joy of his heart--and though, like most
country gentlemen, he was exceedingly angry if any person stole his
game, I believe he would rather have lost fifty pheasants or hares than
one squirrel. _And so would I_, had I been poor little Jane's papa!

But we must not forget Master Brush, who has been seated all this time
in the larch-plantation, making a famous meal upon the aromatic buds
and tender bark. "Ah!" said he to himself, "if those lazy creatures in
the nest yonder did but know what delicious food there is here!" Then
he continued munching and skipping about the trees for some time
longer. But presently the weather began to change. The sun hid his
glorious face behind dark clouds; a fierce easterly wind whistled
through the trees; a cold driving rain came on, and winter seemed to be
returned again.

"Oh, dear me," said Brush, "this will never do! I don't like this sort
of thing at all! the nest is the best place I declar