The Flying Squirrel

Of all the woodland creatures,The quaintest little spriteIs the dainty flying squirrelIn vest of shining white,In coat of silver gray,And vest of shining white.

His furry Quaker jacketIs trimmed with stripe of black;A furry plume to match itIs curling o'er his back;New curved with every motion,His plume curls o'er his back.

No little new-born babyHas pinker feet than he;Each tiny toe is cushionedWith velvet cushions three;Three wee, pink, velvet cushionsAlmost too small to see.

Who said, "The foot of babyMight tempt an angel's kiss"?I know a score of school-boysWho put their lips to this,—This wee foot of the squirrel,And left a loving kiss.

The tiny thief has hiddenMy candy and my plum;Ah, there he comes unbiddenTo gently nip my thumb,—Down in his home (my pocket)He gently nips my thumb.

How strange the food he covets,The restless, restless wight;—Fred's old stuffed armadilloHe found a tempting bite,Fred's old stuffed armadillo,With ears a perfect fright.

The Lady Ruth's great bureau,Each foot a dragon's paw!The midget ate the nails fromHis famous antique claw.Oh, what a cruel beastieTo hurt a dragon's claw!

To autographic copiesUpon my choicest shelf,—To every dainty volumeThe rogue has helped himself.My books! Oh dear! No matter!The rogue has helped himself.

And yet, my little squirrel,Your taste is not so bad;You've swallowed Caird completelyAnd psychologic Ladd.Rosmini you've digested,And Kant in rags you've clad.

Gnaw on, my elfish rodent!Lay all the sages low!My pretty lace and ribbons,They're yours for weal or woe!My pocket-book's in tattersBecause you like it so.

Mary E. Burt.