Squirrel Play (for Melissa et al.)
It was sixteen degrees, but it felt like four. We were on a walk on a sunny Sunday, and while we walked we put half our hands in our pockets and the other half we held between us, amorous, and clad. We thought, while we walked, that, if we might spend some time, we might stop to talk to the locals and learn the Cambridge news. We passed a fat little squirrel in a little city non-yard and so, having no one else to talk to, we stopped to talk to him.
"Hello small squire," we called, "may we enter your tiny yard and have a chat, spin a yarn, tell a tale?"
He paused at his task and considered. "It is not customary that I acquaint with giants, but the company has been somewhat lacking, so on this shivering pivering sunny Sunday...you may."
(To tell the truth, we had hardly expected the affirmative reply. Truthfully, our inquiry was somewhat insincere. Honestly, do people spend their chilly pilly shivering pivering sunny Sundays in the miniature yards of squirrels? I will tell you forthright, the answer is non.)
For a brief moment, we considered reconsidering, reversing our course and walking away, but before we took action, the squirrel set for us a table and it is not our desire to offend. "Come around giants!" he called from below, "come around and over and between and through, up these stairs, over the railing, through these bushes, and share with me, in the yard where the sun has won the battle and the snow has begun to disappear! Come to my planting ground and we shall share the riches of my autumn bounty!"
"Fine squire," we said as we climbed o're the fence and we joined him on a wee plot of land, a grass strip between the apartment building and the sidewalk, surrounded by cast iron fences, "but you must know that we will only take the tea without sugar and we'll have scones without butter."
(Honestly, we prefer glasses of sugar and our appetite for butter is not easily whetted. Remember, though, whenever at tea with a woodland animal, that it is not good manners to expect the delicacies of a proper English tea. Our wee squire was visibly relieved when we told him so.)
"Fine giants," he told us and bid us join him at his table. Atop a small fallen branch the squirrel perched, we sat upon leaves set forth for the purpose.
"You're the lady, and so you'll pour tea." (Really, how could one expect a squirrel to pour tea? Silly, I'm sure.) "And then, of the formalities of conversation, we'll talk of the weather."
We spoke to the squirrel, of the snowy blowy chilly pilly shivering pivering sunny Sundays and of the untrustworthy nature of certain other vermin in predicting the spring. And when we were comfortable company and the tea had been poured into its miniature wooden cup, we asked him of his harvest and of the locations of his stores, whether the squirrels are pleased to see the birds return, and if his life was so often spent in the yard on Broadway.
"Tell us a truth of your world dear squirrel!" we cried, "For earnestly, honestly, sincerely we'll add! We absolutely positively must know: Is this fence in your yard to keep you from coming or going?"
(Truth be told, this is was an unnecessary question, for anyone could see that the fence served no purpose as far as a squirrel's traffic patterns concern! The gaps in the fence were entirely too wide for constriction and, verily, the fence stood only at the front of the non-yard and did not even continue to the East or the West! Honestly, we were only teasing the pet!)
On this freezing meezing snowy blowy chilly pilly shivering pivering sunny Sunday, the squirrel froze in his tracks. Slowly slowly he laid down his tea and then wiped his tiny face with his tiny hands. Slowly slowly his eyes scanned up and down the block and seeing only a French bulldog in a vest chasing shadows at the bottom of the hill, he spoke.
"Well giants, I'll tell you you've been very rude. I've invited you to tea and instructed you to talk only of trivialities. But now that you've asked, I'll just have to tell, and expect you to face all consequences."
He wandered to and fro, pounding at his head and pulling at his ears in great distress. (We tried to stop him, really we did! Who ever wishes to see a squirrel in so much anguish?) Finally, he stopped pacing, swallowed the rest of the tea, and turned over the saucer. Using it as if a guide, he marched precisely to a spot in the yard two paces from the second shrub with a quarter turn to the right and began to dig.
(I'll tell you the truth, though we made a show of objecting, we were very eager to see what might be unearthed.)
The digging was difficult, due to the temperature, but our little squirrel was proficient! He lept up in joy and pulled from the hole...a nut.
"A nut?" we said.
"A nut." he said.
With scorn he threw it to the side, moved a half turn to the left and three paces to the North and began to dig again. And then...a nut.
"A nut?" we said.
"A nut." he said.
A better part of our icy dicey freezing meezing snowy blowy chilly pilly shivering pivering sunny Sunday was spent sitting on a leaf in a tiny yard atop a hill along side Broadway street watching a squirrel dig nuts from the hard hard ground. The squirrel was consumed by his task, but we began to make eyes to each other that a polite way to excuse ourselves must be found and soon! But then...
"Keys?" we said.
"Keys." he said with a glint in his eye, "You see, my fine giants, that I'm in the business of universal domination."
"People make such a mockery of squirrels, as though all we do is to forget where we have buried our nuts! Does anyone think that if we really had no idea where we kept our food we would be able to survive? Is the concept of self preservation so foreign that it is completely inconceivable to consider that maybe we plant a few oaks here and there? Oh, but it won't be funny when I'm in charge will it!?"
"There are over forty sets of keys, two dozen cellular telephones, and fifty five lithium watch batteries buried beneath this quadrant alone! Step one is nearly complete, soon I'll have acquired all the goods on Broadway!"
"Well little squire," we said in much awe, "you surely are full of ambition! We don't mean to pry, but could you please tell us, what is step two of your plan?"
Our furry friend had begun munching on one of the unearthed nuts, but stopped at our query and turned to look at us, one single eye at a time.
"Beg pardon?" he asked.
"We only mean," said we, "that if you have step one nearly completed, surely you could tell us your second step? What you will be doing next?"
The little fellow only stared.
"Squirrel!" we shouted, "what is step two!?" He returned to munching.
A couple walked by, staring at us as we sat facing a building, sitting in a tiny yard with a squirrel on this bold cold icy dicey freezing meezing snowy blowy chilly pilly shivering pivering sunny Sunday. After they passed the squirrel winked at us and whispered, very softly, barely audible above the wind, "step two involves robots and making people to look foolish in front of other people." With that he ducked through the fence, scaled a trunk, and was gone.
"Hello small squire," we called, "may we enter your tiny yard and have a chat, spin a yarn, tell a tale?"
He paused at his task and considered. "It is not customary that I acquaint with giants, but the company has been somewhat lacking, so on this shivering pivering sunny Sunday...you may."
(To tell the truth, we had hardly expected the affirmative reply. Truthfully, our inquiry was somewhat insincere. Honestly, do people spend their chilly pilly shivering pivering sunny Sundays in the miniature yards of squirrels? I will tell you forthright, the answer is non.)
For a brief moment, we considered reconsidering, reversing our course and walking away, but before we took action, the squirrel set for us a table and it is not our desire to offend. "Come around giants!" he called from below, "come around and over and between and through, up these stairs, over the railing, through these bushes, and share with me, in the yard where the sun has won the battle and the snow has begun to disappear! Come to my planting ground and we shall share the riches of my autumn bounty!"
"Fine squire," we said as we climbed o're the fence and we joined him on a wee plot of land, a grass strip between the apartment building and the sidewalk, surrounded by cast iron fences, "but you must know that we will only take the tea without sugar and we'll have scones without butter."
(Honestly, we prefer glasses of sugar and our appetite for butter is not easily whetted. Remember, though, whenever at tea with a woodland animal, that it is not good manners to expect the delicacies of a proper English tea. Our wee squire was visibly relieved when we told him so.)
"Fine giants," he told us and bid us join him at his table. Atop a small fallen branch the squirrel perched, we sat upon leaves set forth for the purpose.
"You're the lady, and so you'll pour tea." (Really, how could one expect a squirrel to pour tea? Silly, I'm sure.) "And then, of the formalities of conversation, we'll talk of the weather."
We spoke to the squirrel, of the snowy blowy chilly pilly shivering pivering sunny Sundays and of the untrustworthy nature of certain other vermin in predicting the spring. And when we were comfortable company and the tea had been poured into its miniature wooden cup, we asked him of his harvest and of the locations of his stores, whether the squirrels are pleased to see the birds return, and if his life was so often spent in the yard on Broadway.
"Tell us a truth of your world dear squirrel!" we cried, "For earnestly, honestly, sincerely we'll add! We absolutely positively must know: Is this fence in your yard to keep you from coming or going?"
(Truth be told, this is was an unnecessary question, for anyone could see that the fence served no purpose as far as a squirrel's traffic patterns concern! The gaps in the fence were entirely too wide for constriction and, verily, the fence stood only at the front of the non-yard and did not even continue to the East or the West! Honestly, we were only teasing the pet!)
On this freezing meezing snowy blowy chilly pilly shivering pivering sunny Sunday, the squirrel froze in his tracks. Slowly slowly he laid down his tea and then wiped his tiny face with his tiny hands. Slowly slowly his eyes scanned up and down the block and seeing only a French bulldog in a vest chasing shadows at the bottom of the hill, he spoke.
"Well giants, I'll tell you you've been very rude. I've invited you to tea and instructed you to talk only of trivialities. But now that you've asked, I'll just have to tell, and expect you to face all consequences."
He wandered to and fro, pounding at his head and pulling at his ears in great distress. (We tried to stop him, really we did! Who ever wishes to see a squirrel in so much anguish?) Finally, he stopped pacing, swallowed the rest of the tea, and turned over the saucer. Using it as if a guide, he marched precisely to a spot in the yard two paces from the second shrub with a quarter turn to the right and began to dig.
(I'll tell you the truth, though we made a show of objecting, we were very eager to see what might be unearthed.)
The digging was difficult, due to the temperature, but our little squirrel was proficient! He lept up in joy and pulled from the hole...a nut.
"A nut?" we said.
"A nut." he said.
With scorn he threw it to the side, moved a half turn to the left and three paces to the North and began to dig again. And then...a nut.
"A nut?" we said.
"A nut." he said.
A better part of our icy dicey freezing meezing snowy blowy chilly pilly shivering pivering sunny Sunday was spent sitting on a leaf in a tiny yard atop a hill along side Broadway street watching a squirrel dig nuts from the hard hard ground. The squirrel was consumed by his task, but we began to make eyes to each other that a polite way to excuse ourselves must be found and soon! But then...
"Keys?" we said.
"Keys." he said with a glint in his eye, "You see, my fine giants, that I'm in the business of universal domination."
"People make such a mockery of squirrels, as though all we do is to forget where we have buried our nuts! Does anyone think that if we really had no idea where we kept our food we would be able to survive? Is the concept of self preservation so foreign that it is completely inconceivable to consider that maybe we plant a few oaks here and there? Oh, but it won't be funny when I'm in charge will it!?"
"There are over forty sets of keys, two dozen cellular telephones, and fifty five lithium watch batteries buried beneath this quadrant alone! Step one is nearly complete, soon I'll have acquired all the goods on Broadway!"
"Well little squire," we said in much awe, "you surely are full of ambition! We don't mean to pry, but could you please tell us, what is step two of your plan?"
Our furry friend had begun munching on one of the unearthed nuts, but stopped at our query and turned to look at us, one single eye at a time.
"Beg pardon?" he asked.
"We only mean," said we, "that if you have step one nearly completed, surely you could tell us your second step? What you will be doing next?"
The little fellow only stared.
"Squirrel!" we shouted, "what is step two!?" He returned to munching.
A couple walked by, staring at us as we sat facing a building, sitting in a tiny yard with a squirrel on this bold cold icy dicey freezing meezing snowy blowy chilly pilly shivering pivering sunny Sunday. After they passed the squirrel winked at us and whispered, very softly, barely audible above the wind, "step two involves robots and making people to look foolish in front of other people." With that he ducked through the fence, scaled a trunk, and was gone.
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