Such was the end of the strongest and bravest squirrel whom I ever knew. You must not imagine for one moment that such a crime as he was guilty of is a common one among squirrels. It is, indeed, very rare for one of our family to take to a carnivorous diet, but when he does fall into such a habit he never abandons it. They say that there is a kind of parrot in New Zealand, called the kea, which in old days, before sheep were imported into the islands, lived entirely upon seeds and insects. But the bird found it was easier to pick at the raw skins of newly-killed sheep, hung out on the fences, than to hunt food for itself; and, once it acquired a taste for blood, there was no more caterpillar-hunting for the kea! Next thing the shepherds knew, sheep were found dying or dead all over the ranges, the fat above the kidneys torn out by the powerful hooked beak of this goblin bird. Now the Government has set a price upon the head of the kea, and the outlaw lives a proscribed and hunted life. Far be it from the squirrels that, as a race, they should take to the evil habit of flesh eating. But from time immemorial a few in each generation have begun with devouring birds’ eggs; from that gone on to eating young hedge-sparrows, redstarts, and the like; and finally, like my poor brother, taken to larger game, such as young pheasants, ducks, or chickens. But they seldom have the chance of long continuing such raids, for, unlike foxes, rats, polecats, and other enemies of the poultry yard, they do not hunt by night, but boldly in broad daylight. Consequently they almost inevitably meet fate in the shape of a charge of lead. [Illustration: ‘AND TO THINK IT WAS THIS HERE LITTLE RED RASCAL’] Whether the man who shot Rusty told the story to the ginger-whiskered keeper, or whether the latter himself surprised some of us feasting on his pheasant food in the coppice I do not know, but from that very day dated the war against the squirrels on the Hall estate. That same afternoon, having discharged the unpleasant duty of telling poor Rusty’s widow of the sad event of the morning, I was roaming sadly about our oak-tree, searching under the bark for the insects which inhabited the rotten wood, when I heard a gun fired twice at the other end of the coppice. At first I hardly moved, for I took it that the keeper was merely killing a weasel or some such vermin. But when two more shots followed quickly, and immediately afterwards the vicious crack, crack of a lighter weapon, I was amazed, for, like all other woodland dwellers, I was perfectly well aware that the shooting season had not yet commenced. When the double barrel spoke again, and this time nearer, I called Walnut, who was up in the top branches, and together we took hasty refuge in our hole. We had not been there five minutes before there came a quick scuttering of claws up the rough bark, and simultaneously the tramping of heavy feet through the bracken at a little distance.