A Difference of Opinion, with Acorns

WELL, WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT . . . .

Woodland Visits with Percy Puddlesniff

“A Difference of Opinion, with Acorns”

Percy Puddlesniff introduces readers to the woodland neighbors of Honey Hill Country, where even the smallest lives hold something worth hearing. He approaches their daily occupations, disagreements, and peculiar arrangements with curiosity, good humor, and a willingness to ask one more question.

Join him each month for conversations and discoveries among the furred, feathered, and occasionally flustered residents who make their homes just beyond our own.

I found Cheeky and Scrambles disagreeing beneath an oak tree beside the road.

It was a fine October morning. Red sumac brightened the fence line, fallen leaves whispered along the ditch, and every few moments another acorn dropped into the proceedings.

Neither participant considered this an interruption.

They considered it inventory.

“You cannot possibly remember where you put them all,” Cheeky the Chipmunk was saying.

“I remember well enough,” Scrambles the Grey Squirrel replied.

“You buried one beside that stone yesterday,” Cheeky continued.

“Yes, I did.” Scrambles confirmed.

“Then you moved it.”

“Yes.”

“Then you came back and looked beside the stone.”

“I was checking,” Scrambles explained.

“On what?”

The grey squirrel noticed my notebook.

“Oh! Good morning, Percy. Perhaps you can settle something,” he suggested.

I had come out hoping to interview someone about preparations for Winter. It appeared that preparations for Winter had already arranged an interview for me.

“What seems to be the difficulty?” I asked.

“He puts his supper all over the countryside,” said the chipmunk.

“He keeps his all stuffed into his face,” said the squirrel.

At that moment, the chipmunk’s cheeks were empty.

He appeared to regard this as an unfair accusation based on previous evidence.

The chipmunk explained his arrangements first.

A proper household, he said, ought to have its provisions where the householder could find them. His were carried home and stored underground, in his burrow.

“Dry quarters. A comfortable bed. Something to eat nearby. When the cold settles in, I needn’t go wandering about wondering what became of breakfast,” he explained.

“Very sensible,” I said.

The squirrel brushed a leaf from an acorn.

“Very sensible until somebody finds your whole pantry,” Scrambles asserted.

The chipmunk folded his paws and tapped his foot.

“Nobody is being invited,” he countered.

“That doesn’t stop everybody,” Scrambles responded.

“And who,” asked the chipmunk, “would be poking around somebody else’s pantry?”

“Oh, someone like your average skunk, raccoon, possum, or fox. Maybe mice. I wouldn’t put it past a couple of your fellow chipmunk friends to sneak and stuff their cheeks while you’re away,” Scrambles answered.

“They would never do that!” Cheeky blurted out.

“Oh yes they would!” Scrambles shot back.

A moment or two of silence followed before the squirrel became interested in his acorn once again.

I wrote down different views concerning household security.

The squirrel’s arrangements were spread among numerous hiding places. He buried nuts in the ground, covering them carefully before moving on.

“A little here, a little there,” he explained. “Something happens to one place, I have others.”

“Assuming you remember them,” I added.

“I use my head,” he declared.

“You also use mine,” Cheeky jumped in. “You asked me where you’d put that hickory nut.”

“I asked whether you had seen it,” Scrambles sought to clarify.

“I had. You were sitting on it.”

“That,” said the squirrel, “was a temporary arrangement.”

While we talked, the chipmunk resumed gathering.

He examined an acorn, turned it in his paws, and tucked it into a cheek pouch. Another followed. Then another.

The squirrel watched.

I watched.

The chipmunk continued.

By then, he looked as though he was trying to carry the whole Winter’s groceries in one trip. The squirrel began to laugh.

It was a warm, helpless little chuckle, and he tried to hide it behind his paws.

“I beg your pardon,” Scrambles said. “But every Autumn I forget how wide you get.”

The chipmunk stood upright and gave him a dignified look.

Or as dignified a look as circumstances permitted, I suppose.

“Can you still see your feet?” asked the squirrel.

The chipmunk glanced down.

That did not improve matters.

He pointed firmly toward his burrow, then marched away with the measured care of a man carrying two full cups across a crowded room.

The squirrel watched him go.

“Hard worker,” he said.

“You sound fond of him,” I repled.

“We’ve been arguing about this whole gathering business for the past three Autumns.”

A small party of riders came along the road while we waited.

Willow Meadows was leading a group of visitors from St. Louis on a trail ride through the Autumn hills. She drew her horse to an easy walk when she saw us.

“Good morning, Percy. Gathering news?”

“Winter provisions, mostly. The news comes with them.”

The squirrel picked up another acorn.

“Tell him there’s nothing wrong with putting a few things aside in different places,” Scrambles urged.

Willow smiled.

“I keep an extra pencil in my pocket and another in my notebook,” she offered.

The squirrel looked pleased.

The chipmunk, returning with considerably narrower cheeks, heard the last of this.

“Ask her whether she scatters her groceries through the woods,” he urged, with a tone of indignation.

One of the riders laughed.

“Perhaps we had better let Percy finish his interview,” Willow said.

Their horses carried them onward through the sunlight, hooves softly stirring the leaves. The chipmunk watched until they had rounded the bend.