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THE DOUGLAS SQUIRREL
(Sciurus Douplasii)
THE Douglas squirrel is by
far the most interesting and influential of the California sciuridoe,
surpassing every other species in force of character, numbers, and extent of
range, and in the amount of influence he brings to bear upon the health and
distribution of the vast forests he inhabits.
Go where you will throughout
the noble woods of the Sierra Nevada, among the giant pines and spruces of
the lower zones, up through the towering silver firs to the storm-bent
thickets of the summit peaks, you everywhere find this little squirrel the
master existence. Though only a few inches long, so intense is his fiery
vigor and restlessness, he stirs every grove with wild life, and makes
himself more important than even the huge bears that shuffle through the
tangled underbrush beneath him. Every wind is fretted by his voice, almost
every bole and branch feels the sting of his sharp feet. How much the growth
of the trees is stimulated by this means it is not easy to learn, but his
action in manipulating their seeds is more appreciable. Nature has made him
master forester and committed most of her coniferous crops to his paws.
Probably over fifty per cent of all the cones ripened on the Sierra are cut
off and handled by the Douglas alone, and of those of the Big Trees perhaps
ninety per cent pass through his hands: the greater portion is of course
stored away for food to last during the winter and spring, but some of them
are tucked separately into loosely covered holes, where some of the seeds
germinate and become trees. But the Sierra is only one of the many provinces
over which he holds sway, for his dominion extends over all the redwood belt
of the Coast Mountains, and far northward throughout the majestic forests of
Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia. I make haste to mention these
facts, to show upon how substantial a foundation the importance I ascribe to
him rests.
The Douglas is closely allied
to the red squirrel or chickaree of the Eastern woods. Ours may be a lineal
descendant of this species, distributed westward to the Pacific by way of
the Great Lakes and the Rocky Mountains, and thence southward along our
forested ranges. This view is suggested by the fact that our species becomes
redder, and more chickaree-like in general, the farther it is traced back
along the course indicated above. But whatever their relationship, and the
evolutionary forces that have acted upon them, the Douglas is now the larger
and more beautiful animal.
From the nose to the root of
the tail he measures about eight inches; and his tail, which he so
effectively uses in interpreting his feelings, is about six inches in
length. He wears dark bluish-gray over the back and halfway down the sides,
bright buff on the belly, with a stripe of dark gray, nearly black,
separating the upper and under colors; this dividing stripe, however, is not
very sharply defined. He has long black whiskers, which gives him a rather
fierce look when observed closely, strong claws, sharp as fish-hooks, and
the brightest of bright eyes, full of telling speculation.
A King's River Indian told me
that they call him "Pillillooeet," which, rapidly pronounced with the first
syllable heavily accented, is not unlike the lusty exclamation he utters on
his way up a tree when excited. Most mountaineers in California call him the
pine squirrel; and when I asked an old trapper whether he knew our little
forester, he replied with brightening countenance: "Oh, yes, of course I
know him; everybody knows him. When I'm huntin' in the woods, I often find
out where the deer are by his barkin' at 'em. I call 'em lightnin'
squirrels, because they're so mighty quick and peert."
All the true squirrels are
more or less birdlike in speech and movements; but the Douglas is
preeminently so, possessing, as he does, every attribute peculiarly
squirrelish enthusiastically concentrated. He is the squirrel of squirrels,
flashing from branch to branch of his favorite evergreens crisp and glossy
and undiseased as a sunbeam. Give him wings and he would out-fly any bird in
the woods. His big gray cousin is a looser animal, seemingly light enough to
float on the wind; yet when leaping from limb to limb, or out of one
tree-top to another, he sometimes halts to gather strength, as if making
efforts concerning the upshot of which he does not always feel exactly
confident. But the Douglas, with his denser body, leaps and glides in hidden
strength, seemingly as independent of common muscles as a mountain stream.
He threads the tasseled branches of the pines, stirring their needles like a
rustling breeze; now shooting across openings in arrowy lines; now launching
in curves, glinting deftly from side to side in sudden zigzags, and swirling
in giddy loops and spirals around the knotty trunks; getting into what seem
to be the most impossible situations without sense of danger; now on his
haunches, now on his head; yet ever graceful, and punctuating his most
irrepressible outbursts of energy with little dots and dashes of perfect
repose. He is, without exception, the wildest animal I ever saw, — a fiery,
sputtering little bolt of life, luxuriating in quick oxygen and the woods'
best juices. One can hardly think of such a creature being dependent, like
the rest of us, on climate and food. But, after all, it requires no long
acquaintance to learn he is human, for he works for a living. His busiest
time is in the Indian summer. Then he gathers burs and hazel nuts like a
plodding farmer, working continuously every day for hours; saying not a
word; cutting off the ripe cones at the top of his speed, as if employed by
the job, and examining every branch in regular order, as if careful that not
one should escape him; then, descending, he stores them away beneath logs
and stumps, in anticipation of the pinching hunger days of winter. He seems
himself a kind of coniferous fruit, — both fruit and flower. The resiny
essences of the pines pervade every pore of his body, and eating his flesh
is like chewing gum.
One never tires of this
bright chip of nature, — this brave little voice crying in the wilderness, —
of observing his many works and ways, and listening to his curious language.
His musical, piny gossip is as savory to the ear as balsam to the palate;
and, though he has not exactly the gift of song, some of his notes are as
sweet as those of a linnet — almost flute-like in softness, while others
prick and tingle like thistles. He is the mocking-bird of squirrels, pouring
forth mixed chatter and song like a perennial fountain; barking like a dog,
screaming like a hawk, chirping like a blackbird or a sparrow; while in
bluff, audacious noisiness he is a very jay.
In descending the trunk of a
tree with the intention of alighting on the ground, he preserves a cautious
silence, mindful, perhaps, of foxes and wildcats; but while rocking safely
at home in the pine-tops there is no end to his capers and noise; and woe to
the gray squirrel or chipmunk that ventures to set foot on his favorite
tree! No matter how slyly they trace the furrows of the bark, they are
speedily discovered, and kicked downstairs with comic vehemence, while a
torrent of angry notes comes rushing from his whiskered lips that sounds
remarkably like swearing. He will even attempt at times to drive away dogs
and men, especially if he has had no previous knowledge of them. Seeing a
man for the first time, he approaches nearer and nearer, until within a few
feet; then, with an angry outburst, he makes a sudden rush, all teeth and
eyes, as if about to eat you up. But, finding that the big, forked animal
does n't scare, he prudently beats a retreat, and sets himself up to
reconnoiter on some overhanging branch, scrutinizing every movement you make
with ludicrous solemnity. Gathering courage, he ventures down the trunk
again, churring and chirping, and jerking nervously up and down in curious
loops, eying you all the time, as if showing off and demanding your
admiration. Finally, growing calmer, he settles down in a comfortable
posture on some horizontal branch commanding a good view, and beats time
with his tail to a steady " Chee-up ! chee-up ! " or, when somewhat less
excited, "Pee-ah!" with the first syllable keenly accented, and the second
drawn out like the scream of a hawk, — repeating this slowly and more
emphatically at first, then gradually faster, until a rate of about one
hundred and fifty words a minute is reached; usually sitting all the time on
his haunches, with paws resting on his breast, which pulses visibly with
each word. It is remarkable, too, that, though articulating distinctly, he
keeps his mouth shut most of the time, and speaks through his nose. I have
occasionally observed him even eating sequoia seeds and nibbling a
troublesome flea, without ceasing or in any way confusing his "Pee-ah!
pee-ah!"
While ascending trees all his
claws come into play, but in descending the weight of his body is sustained
chiefly by those of the hind feet; still in neither case do his movements
suggest effort, though if you are near enough you may see the bulging
strength of his short, bear-like arms, and note his sinewy fists clinched in
the bark.
Whether going up or down, he
carries his tail extended at full length in line with his body, unless it be
required for gestures. But while running along horizontal limbs or fallen
trunks, it is frequently folded forward over the back, with the airy tip
daintily upcurled. In cool weather it keeps him warm. Then, after he has
finished his meal, you may see him crouched close on some level limb with
his tail-robe neatly spread and reaching forward to his ears, the electric,
outstanding hairs` quivering in the breeze like pine needles. But in wet or
very cold weather he stays in his nest, and while curled up there his
comforter is long enough to come forward around his nose. It is seldom so
cold, however, as to prevent his going out to his stores when hungry.
Once as I lay storm-bound on
the upper edge of the timber line on Mount Shasta, the thermometer nearly at
zero and the sky thick with driving snow, a Douglas came bravely out several
times from one of the lower hollows of a dwarf pine near my camp, faced the
wind without seeming to feel it much, frisked lightly about over the mealy
snow, and dug his way down to some hidden seeds with wonderful precision, as
if to his eyes the thick snow-covering were glass.
No other of the Sierra
animals of my acquaintance is better fed, not even the deer, amid abundance
of sweet herbs and shrubs, or the mountain sheep, or omnivorous bears. His
food consists of grass-seeds, berries, hazel-nuts, chinquapins, and the nuts
and seeds of all the coniferous trees without exception, — pine, fir,
spruce, libocedrus, juniper, and sequoia, — he is fond of them all, and they
all agree with him, green or ripe. No cone is too large for him to manage,
none so small as to be beneath his notice. The smaller ones, such as those
of the hemlock, and the Douglas spruce, and the two-leaved pine, he cuts off
and eats on a branch of the tree, without allowing them to fall; beginning
at the bottom of the cone and cutting away the scales to expose the seeds;
not gnawing by guess, like a bear, but turning them round and round in
regular order, in compliance with their spiral arrangement.
When thus employed, his
location in the tree is betrayed by a dribble of scales, shells, and
seed-wings, and, every few minutes, by the fall of the stripped axis of the
cone. Then of course he is ready for another, and if you are watching you
may catch a glimpse of him as he glides silently out to the end of a branch
and see him examining the cone-clusters until he finds one to his mind;
then, leaning over, pull back the springy needles out of his way, grasp the
cone with his paws to prevent its falling, snip it off in an incredibly
short time, seize it with jaws grotesquely stretched, and return to his
chosen seat near the trunk. But the immense size of the cones of the sugar
pine — from fifteen to twenty inches in length — and those of the Jeffrey
variety of the yellow pine compel him to adopt a quite different method. He
cuts them off without attempting to hold them, then goes down and drags them
from where they have chanced to fall up to the bare, swelling ground around
the instep of the tree, where he demolishes them in the same methodical way,
beginning at the bottom and following the scale spirals to the top.
From a single sugar pine cone
he gets from two to four hundred seeds about half the size of a hazel nut,
so that in a few minutes he can procure enough to last a week. He seems,
however, to prefer those of the two silver firs above all others; perhaps
because they are most easily obtained, as the scales drop off when ripe
without needing to be cut. Both species are filled with an exceedingly
pungent, aromatic oil, which spices all his flesh, and is of itself
sufficient to account for his lightning energy.
You may easily know this
little workman by his chips. On sunny hillsides around the principal trees
they lie in big piles, — bushels and basketfuls of them, all fresh and
clean, making the most beautiful kitchen-middens imaginable. The brown and
yellow scales and nutshells are as abundant and as delicately penciled and
tinted as the shells along the seashore; while the beautiful red and purple
seed-wings mingled with them would lead one to fancy that innumerable
butterflies had there met their fate.
He feasts on all the species
long before they are ripe, but is wise enough to wait until they are matured
before he gathers them into his barns. This is in October and November,
which with him are the two busiest months of the year. All kinds of burs,
big and little, are now cut off and showered down alike, and the ground is
speedily covered with them. A constant thudding and bumping is kept up; some
of the larger cones chancing to fall on old logs make the forest reecho with
the sound. Other nut-eaters less industrious know well what is going on, and
hasten to carry away the cones as they fall. But however busy the harvester
may be, he is not slow to descry the pilferers below, and instantly leaves
his work to drive them away. The little striped tamias is a thorn in his
flesh, stealing persistently, punish him as he may. The large gray squirrel
gives trouble also, although the Douglas has been accused of stealing from
him. Generally, however, just the opposite is the case.
The excellence of the Sierra
evergreens is well known to nurserymen throughout the world, consequently
there is considerable demand for the seeds. The greater portion of the
supply has hitherto been procured by chopping down the trees in the more
accessible sections of the forest alongside of bridle-paths that cross the
range. Sequoia seeds at first brought from twenty to thirty dollars per
pound, and therefore were eagerly sought after. Some of the smaller fruitful
trees were cut down in the groves not protected by the Government,
especially those of Fresno and King's River. Most of the sequoias, however,
are of so gigantic a size that the seedsmen have to look for the greater
portion of their supplies to the Douglas, who soon learns he is no match for
these freebooters. He is Rise enough, however, to cease working the instant
he perceives them, and never fails to embrace every opportunity to recover
his burs whenever they happen to be stored in any place accessible to him,
and the busy seedsman often finds on returning to camp that the little
Douglas has exhaustively spoiled the spoiler. I know one seed-gatherer who,
whenever he robs the squirrels, scatters wheat or barley beneath the trees
as conscience-money.
The want of appreciable life
remarked by so many travelers in the Sierra forests is never felt at this
time of year. Banish all the humming insects and the birds and quadrupeds,
leaving only Sir Douglas, and the most solitary of our so-called solitudes
would still throb with ardent life. But if you should go impatiently even
into the most populous of the groves on purpose to meet him, and walk about
looking up among the branches, you would see very little of him. But lie
down at the foot of one of the trees and straightway he will come. For, in
the midst of the ordinary forest sounds, the falling of burs, piping of
quails, the screaming of the Clark crow, and the rustling of deer and bears
among the chaparral, he is quick to detect your strange footsteps, and will
hasten to make a good, close inspection of you as soon as you are still.
First, you may hear him sounding a few notes of curious inquiry, but more
likely the first intimation of his approach will be the prickly sounds of
his feet as he descends the tree overhead, just before he makes his savage
onrush to frighten you and proclaim your presence to every squirrel and bird
in the neighborhood. If you remain perfectly motionless, he will come nearer
and nearer, and probably set your flesh a-tingle by frisking across your
body. Once, while I was seated at the foot of a hemlock spruce in one of the
most inaccessible of the San Joaquin yosemites engaged in sketching, a
reckless fellow came up behind me, passed under my bended arm, and jumped on
my paper. And one warm afternoon, while an old friend of mine was reading
out in the shade of his cabin, one of his Douglas neighbors jumped from the
gable upon his head, and then with admirable assurance ran down over his
shoulder and on to the book he held in his hand.
Our Douglas enjoys a large
social circle; for, besides his numerous relatives, Sciurus fossor, Tamias
quadrivitatus, T. Townsendii, Spermophilus Beecheyi, S. Douglasii, he
maintains intimate relations with the nut-eating birds, particularly the
Clark crow (Picicorvus columbianus) and the numerous woodpeckers and jays.
The two spermophiles are astonishingly abundant in the lowlands and lower
foothills, but more and more sparingly distributed up through the Douglas
domains, — seldom venturing higher than six or seven thousand feet above the
level of the sea. The gray sciurus ranges but little higher than this. The
little striped tamias alone is associated with him everywhere. In the lower
and middle zones, where they all meet, they are tolerably harmonious — a
happy family, though very amusing skirmishes may occasionally be witnessed.
Wherever the ancient glaciers have spread forest soil there you find our wee
hero, most abundant where depth of soil and genial climate have given rise
to a corresponding luxuriance in the trees, but following every kind of
growth up the curving moraines to the highest glacial fountains.
Though I cannot of course
expect all my readers to sympathize fully in my admiration of this little
animal, few, I hope, will think this sketch of his life too long. I cannot
begin to tell here how much he has cheered my lonely wanderings during all
the years I have been pursuing my studies in these glorious wilds; or how
much unmistakable humanity I have found in him. Take this for example: One
calm, creamy Indian summer morning, when the nuts were ripe, I was camped in
the upper pine woods of the south fork of the San Joaquin, where the
squirrels seemed to be about as plentiful as the ripe burs. They were taking
an early breakfast before going to their regular harvest work. While I was
busy with my own breakfast, I heard the thudding fall of two or three heavy
cones from a yellow pine near me. I stole noiselessly forward within about
twenty feet of the base of it to observe. In a few moments down came the
Douglas. The breakfast burs he had cut off had rolled on the gently sloping
ground into a clump of ceanothus bushes, but he seemed to know exactly where
they were, for he found them at once, apparently without searching for them.
They were more than twice as heavy as himself, but after turning them into
the right position for getting a good hold with his long sickle-teeth he
managed to drag them up to the foot of the tree from which he had cut them,
moving backward. Then seating himself comfortably, he held them on end,
bottom up, and demolished them at his ease. A good deal of nibbling had to
be done before he got anything to eat, because the lower scales are barren,
but when he had patiently worked his way up to the fertile ones he found two
sweet nuts at the base of each, shaped like trimmed hams, and spotted purple
like birds' eggs. And notwithstanding these cones were dripping with soft
balsam, and covered with prickles, and so strongly put together that a boy
would be puzzled to cut them open with a jackknife, he accomplished his meal
with easy dignity and cleanliness, making less effort apparently than a man
would in eating soft cookery from a plate.
Breakfast done, I whistled a
tune for him before he went to work, curious to see how he would be affected
by it. He had not seen me all this while; but the instant I began to whistle
he darted up the tree nearest to him, and came out on a small dead limb
opposite me, and composed himself to listen. I sang and whistled more than a
dozen airs, and as the music changed his eyes sparkled, and he turned his
head quickly from side to side, but made no other response. Other squirrels,
hearing the strange sounds, came around on all sides, also chipmunks and
birds. One of the birds, a handsome, speckled-breasted thrush, seemed even
more interested than the squirrels. After listening for awhile on one of the
lower dead sprays of a pine, he came swooping forward within a few feet of
my face, and remained fluttering in the air for half a minute or so,
sustaining himself with whirring wing-beats, like a hummingbird in front of
a flower, while I could look into his eyes and see his innocent wonder.
By this time my performance
must have lasted nearly half an hour. I sang or whistled "Bonnie Doon,"
"Lass o' Gowrie," "O'er the Water to Charlie," "Bonnie Woods o' Cragie Lee,"
etc., all of which seemed to be listened to with bright interest, my first
Douglas sitting patiently through it all, with his telling eyes fixed upon
me until I ventured to give the "Old Hundredth," when he screamed his Indian
name, Pillillooeet, turned tail, and darted with ludicrous haste up the tree
out of sight, his voice and actions in the case leaving a somewhat profane
impression, as if he had said, "I'll be hanged if you get me to hear
anything so solemn and unpiny." This acted as a signal for the general
dispersal of the whole hairy tribe, though the birds seemed willing to wait
further developments, music being naturally more in their line.
What there can be in that
grand old church tune that is so offensive to birds and squirrels I can't
imagine. A year or two after this High Sierra concert, I was sitting one
fine day on a hill in the Coast - Range where the common ground squirrels
were abundant. They were very shy on account of being hunted so much; but
after I had been silent and motionless for half an hour or so they began to
venture out of their holes and to feed on the seeds of the grasses and
thistles around me as if I were no more to be feared than a tree-stump. Then
it occurred to me that this was a good opportunity to find out whether they
also disliked "Old Hundredth." Therefore I began to whistle as nearly as I
could remember the same familiar airs that had pleased the mountaineers of
the Sierra. They at once stopped eating, stood erect, and listened patiently
until I came to "Old Hundredth," when with ludicrous haste every one of them
rushed to their holes and bolted in, their feet twinkling in the air for a
moment as they vanished.
No one who makes the
acquaintance of our forester will fail to admire him; but he is far too
self-reliant and warlike ever to be taken for a darling.
How long the life of a
Douglas squirrel may be, I don't know. The young seem to sprout from
knot-holes, perfect from the first, and as enduring as their own trees. It
is difficult, indeed, to realize that so condensed a piece of sun-fire
should ever become dim or die at all. He is seldom killed by hunters, for he
is too small to encourage much of their attention, and when pursued in
settled regions becomes excessively shy, and keeps close in the furrows of
the highest trunks, many of which are of the same color as himself. Indian
boys, however, lie in wait with unbounded patience to shoot them with
arrows. In the lower and middle zones a few fall a prey to rattlesnakes.
Occasionally he is pursued by hawks and wildcats, etc. But, upon the whole,
he dwells safely in the deep bosom of the woods, the most highly favored of
all his happy tribe. May his tribe increase! |
