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.