Then there was the calico chip, a two-striped ground squirrel whose vast energy always made Sam feel tired. The calico chips dashed about with an energy which had undoubtedly been intended for some much larger animal, but must have been misplaced when Mother Nature laid out the blueprints of creation. The calico chips were always too busy chasing bugs or gathering and storing seeds to pause for meditation. They left foolish gawking into space to the potbellied rockchips. But their little ears were always tuned to catch the warning blast of the big whistler. There was a sprinkling of lesser chipmunks, a dozen or more. Sam noted with satisfaction that their number was increasing. He had brought two pairs in with him several summers before. They were active, noisy little fellows, dashing about, hoisting their tails like flags when they came to a halt. Every so often one of them would dash to a rock and jump on top of it. He would sit very straight and burst into song. “Chock! Chock! Chock!” in quick succession, like the rattle of an old alarm clock. Sometimes the song would be pitched higher and would go “Check, check, check, chir-r-r-up!” No sooner had one chipmunk mounted his song perch than all the others would dart to theirs, always the same perches. The meadow would ring with their chorus. Their round of music never failed to disturb the fat sentinel whistler. He would shake his silver robe, stretch his neck, then blast three short, sharp notes on his whistle, after which he would settle back with a deep chuckle. Sam’s pipe always rolled to the corner of his mouth and turned upside down when the chorus began. One fumbling hand would pull out his ancient, silver watch and he would fix his gaze fiercely on the second hand. From the chorus he would select one voice and count the “chocks” while he timed the singer. One hundred and seventy “chocks” per minute was the best time he had ever recorded. The poorest, seventy per minute, was made by a fellow whose little round belly hinted that he might have a bit of rockchip blood in him. From far down the meadow, where a clear stream foamed over ragged rocks, came the eager whinny of a horse. Sam’s eyes lighted, and he shoved the big, silver watch into his pocket. Up the meadow galloped a trim black mare. Her mane flowed in the wind as she shook her head, and kicked her heels recklessly. “Purty, right purty,” Sam muttered as he took his pipe out of his mouth. The trim mare slowed to a trot as she neared the cabin. With a toss of her head and a playful leap to one side, she trotted up to Sam and extended her soft muzzle, nickering eagerly. “Mornin’, Lady Ebony,” Sam said affectionately. “Think mebby ol’ Sam’s got a lump o’ sugar?” Lady Ebony pawed and nickered. Sam dug a hand into his pants pocket and brought out two dingy lumps of sugar. He dusted off a grain or two of tobacco and a little chaff, then held one of them out. “Jest a bite, ol’ gal,” he said.