The Gray Squirrel

Ho, ho! you jolly old Flirt-and-Hop, 
With the big bush-tail on the chestnut top, 
What a high life you must lead, indeed, 
     Up there on the tallest trees !
Your heart so merry, your head so gray, 
You seem like a tipsy sailor, gay 
On the last red cent of his last trip's pay, 
     And the same old swing of the seas!

Your home-made cabin, the funniest house 
Of sticks and stubble, of leaves and browse, 
Far up in the chestnut-tree I see,
     To the thick boughs fastened well:
Tell me, squirrel, and tell me fair,
How many little gray babies are there?
I will not harm the slenderest hair
     Of their bushy tails, if you tell.

I know their cradle is warm and soft;
For I peeped, and saw you hurry aloft 
With Indian posy and down of brown
     Blown thistles for their bed:
But your walls are queer, and your roof is squat,
Like a little old tumble-down log-hut:
No windows at all, and the door unshut,
     And the door-yard — overhead!

But now I see it is not all play 
That makes your life so merry to-day;
There's plenty of work for you to do, 
     As the green leaf turns to gold:
The frost has turned the chestnut-burrs, 
Showing the velvet through the spurs;
And the nuts drop when the west wind stirs
     The bed of their slender hold.

I, too, love nutting; but oh, what fun 
To see you hurry and leap and run,
With your cheeks so full, and your feet so fleet, 
     And your flirting plume so quick!
In the hollow tree is a good snug bin 
For your winter nuts; and I think it a sin 
To steal them after you've stowed them in, 
     And locked the door with a stick!

If ever a lad is sulky and blue
Because he finds some task to do, 
If ever a lass would shirk her work 
     In the hope of livelier fun,
They are not so bright as you, my gray, 
Who, frisk and chatter, with work for play, 
Filling your store for a winter's day, 
     And a romp when all is done.