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Wren? The wren . . . The squirrel wanted to think about
the wren, he knew he SHOULD be thinking about the wren,
that the wren was somehow important to him. But all he
could manage to concentrate on was the man as he went
about poking up the fire in the cold hearth and dropping,
from time to time, terrified mice from some hidden pocket
in his robe.
To the man's great amusement, the cat promptly
dispatched the first mouse, took his time with the second,
and only knocked the third one witless.
SAVING IT FOR LATER NO DOUBT, the squirrel
thought sourly. He smelled acorns, bitter and likely woody
and thin. All his patience fell away. Chattering furiously,
berating the man for his cavalier attitude toward his
starving condition, he threw himself against the wooden
bars.
"Ah! Yes, yes, I was getting around to it, noisy one."
The man reached into a pocket and pulled out a handful of
winter-dull acoms. Dark eyes coldly alight in a craggy face,
he slid them, one by one, into the cage.
GETTING AROUND TO IT! GETTING AROUND - !
The squirrel dove for the acoms. He lashed his tail here and
there, stopped once or twice to glare up at the man, and
finally managed to get the nuts all into a pile
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