The animal which had just pushed its way out of the hollow recesses of the hazel-roots resembled nothing so much as a weasel, but a weasel of such giant proportions as I had never before dreamed of. From nose to tip of tail it was nearly two feet long. The creature had a domed head, with prominent eyes and widely arched eyebrows, giving it a strangely sinister appearance. It was, in fact, though I did not realize this at the time, no other than the rare and dreaded polecat, which keepers call the foumart. When I first caught sight of this monster I was sitting on a bough barely a couple of feet from the ground, and so great was my amazement and fright that for an instant I sat staring down into the glaring yellow eyes, unable to collect my senses at all. Of a sudden the creature launched itself upwards with almost the quickness and ferocity of a striking snake. Its thin lips, curled back, showed two rows of close-set white teeth, sharp as needles, and at the same instant an abominable odour, like that of a stoat, but far more fœtid, nearly suffocated me. Recovering myself just in time, I made one desperate spring, and succeeded in reaching a twig out of reach of the brute’s jaws. But the foumart had no idea of being so easily cheated of his meal. The branches, thick and close-set, offered him an easy ladder, and to my horror and alarm, he came after me with unexpected and startling speed. I completely lost my head, and dashed away up to the top of the hazel-bush with a recklessness inspired by terror. In my haste I found that I had ascended, not the main stalk of the clump, but another not so tall. The result was that the oak branch from which I had dropped was now a long way above me. But a rustle in the foliage below told me that my enemy was at my heels, and nerved me to attempt the jump. My claws just grazed the under side of the oak bough. I fell back, and next moment had plunged with a splash into the swirling waters of the swollen torrent. The fall carried me far below the muddy surface, but next moment I rose, gasping for breath, and struck out vehemently. I know that it is popularly supposed that a squirrel cannot swim, but that when he wishes to cross a river he launches himself upon a piece of floating bark, and using his tail as a sail, ferries himself across. A squirrel, as a matter of fact, is a very fair swimmer, and can, and does at a pinch, cross wide rivers in this way. Though I had never tried it before, yet I found myself quite able to keep my head above water; but a very short struggle convinced me that it was foolishness to attempt to make head against the fierce current of the flooded stream.