A WORD FOR THE SQUIRREL.
AN eminent North Country sportsman with whom I had some correspondence upon questions arising from one of my recent articles in the Spectator expressed considerable surprise when told that the squirrel is now practically an unheard of thing in the West. It is true, none the less. Quite recently I was talking to two enthusiastic young naturalists, aged sixteen and eighteen respectively, one living beside the upper Torridge, the other on the South Devon coast. Each had studied wild life with remarkable keenness, and seemed intimate with all the rarer birds and beasts of the country, but neither of them had ever set eyes on the once almost too common- red squirrel.
The extermination of this species—for it practically amounts to that so far as this part of the country is con- cerned—has been effected with comparative suddenness. That is the remarkable part of it. In the near past squirrels were so numerous hereabouts that an ordinarily intelligent observer might see as many as he pleased in the course of a morning's walk through almost any timbered district, and I hesitate to say how many " dreys " I have found within a season in one five-acre larch plantation alone. Anyhow, you may take it for true that ten years ago the squirrel was the principal branch builder in our woods, not excepting even the wood-pigeon. An abandoned magpie's nest never went begging in those days, and anybody who cared to climb to such a nest in the fall of the year was pretty sure of finding it converted into one of those wonder- ful little structures that " Sug " used to build against winter cold and spring floods.
How sadly his status in the land has declined since then may be gathered from my previous remarks. I might add that within the last three years, speaking for an area comprising many thousands of acres of wooded country, once a veritable squirrel paradise, I have come across but one living specimen, nor have I heard of another. One occasionally finds crumbling relics of his work in the tree- tops, but to all intents and purposes he has ceased to be. What is responsible for so deplorable a development ?- The question is often heard, and the answer usually given is " disease." And disease, no doubt, had a great deal to do with it in the first instance. About 1910 (I am open to correction as to the exact date) a virulent form of dis- temper—or whatever anybody likes to call it—ran rife and worked wide-spread havoc. It appears to have been more or less general throughout the South and West, and at the time considerable discussion arose as to cause and effect. The latter was only too obvious, but the source of the trouble proved less easy to trace. There were differences of opinion, of course, but most experts eventually attributed• it to the use of a certain rat poison," which distributed the germs of a fatal disease that turned out to be highly infectious amongst all small rodents. Squirrels, according to theory, caught the trouble in due course, hence the outbreak which depopulated the countryside. Against this it is argued—and quite rightly—that they have since had plenty of time to recuperate. The ill effects of such epidemics are seldom permanent. Indeed they rather tend to improve a race in the long run, on the survival of the fittest principle. Take, for example, the outbreaks of fox-mange, rabbit-sickness, or enteric in pigeons, all of which periodically ravage whole districts. The effect for the moment is appalling, but a cleaner and better strain in after seasons is usually the result, .though we sportsmen seldom admit it at the time. After the squirrel sickness, however, came no such happy sequel. The rats, through whom the complaint was presumably conveyed to the woods and thence to the tree-tops, return fast enough, but where are the squirrels ? They have reappeared in certain districts it is true. In the New Forest, for instance, they are again tolerably plentiful, I am told, and doubtless would have been so farther west by this time were sickness the sole cause of their banishment.
Failing disease, then, one must seek other reasons. At first glance it would seem that the squirrel has little to contend with in these enlightened times. Squirrel-hunting, for example, is now practically a forgotten " sport," fates be praised ! This, for the benefit of anybody unacquainted with the pastime, was once a favourite holiday amuse- ment. One meets plenty of old countrymen, even to-day, who took part in it, and can tell how gangs of men and boys, for lack of better employment, would beat up the plantations for squirrels, which, when started, would be chivvied from tree to tree, under a constant fire of stones, catapult shot and " squalers " (which, by the way, were weighted sticks, specially designed for the purpose) until eventually brought down. On these occasions a three-figure bag was nothing unusual, if old accounts can be relied upon.
That edifying practice has died a natural death, however, happily for the little animal concerned. Also since the passing of his arch-foe, the marten, he has been troubled by very few wild enemies. The buzzard certainly swoops upon him now and again, and at all times, particularly during the breeding season, i.e., midsummer, he has to look out for the terrible carrion-crow, most formidable and rapacious of all our woodland creatures. But buzzards and crows arc not found everywhere ; moreover " Sug " has cultivated tactics to baffle birds of prey. He is not easily caught amongst the branches, and I have noticed that whenever possible his nursery is built in the heart of some low dense bush, holly or buckthorn for choice, pro- tected by an entanglement of spikes, which even the magpie would hesitate to negotiate. This, by the way, serves a twofold purpose, for, besides keeping off would-be plunderers, it saves many a broken neck. Baby squirrels need to find their tree-legs just as young birds have to learn the use of their wings, and a fatal fall not infrequently occurs in such cases when the first venture is made at too dizzy a height above ground. One's next thought is naturally the gamekeeper. But he in this case is innocent, I think. There is no price upon a squirrel's head, for even the most enthusiastic game- preserver seldom grudges life to this bright little ornament to our woods and coppices, while the keeper, for all the needless destruction he effects, is not necessarily wanton. His slaughter of harmless creatures is wrought in ignorance, and for money, therefore is he in every respect less blame- worthy than his employer, who ought to know better. Moreover, speaking for the West, to which my remarks in this paper principally refer, I may say that the keeper is not so seriously to be reckoned with as in bygone days. Indeed, where old estates have been broken up he has gone altogether, but—and here we come to the root of the evil— in place of this comparatively negligible factor (so far as the squirrel was concerned) a new power has arisen, namely the rabbit-trapper. Trapping, I regret to say, has increased enormously within recent years. Before the war in this parish one of the said craft struggled for a livelihood. Five are now in constant employment, and in many other parts of the country one hears the same story. It is a horrible practice; and the fact that it is tolerated at all proves how little is really known about it. Yet it has its defenders—advocates glib of tongue, who hitherto have met every attempt to call attention to the scandal with platitudes that have satisfied the public, and, worse still, those in a position to take up the matter. The stock argument is, of course, necessity, nor with justice can one deny that there are occasions when it is unavoidable if crops are to be saved. It should only be allowed, however, when and where other and more humane measures are not practicable. Were this enforced, the horror would practically cease. At present it is very much in force, and its effect upon wild life generally has been appalling. One needs only to accompany a trapper on his round to realise this. The letter of the law providing that spring-traps may not be set in the open is seldom insisted upon, and it is the wholesale nature of the system that has proved so deadly. The gins are placed so thickly and over such wide spaces that few wild creatures possess sufficient wit to avoid them all. Foxes and badgers, wily enough to take care of themselves as a rule, fall frequent victims, and even the redoubtable polecat, who for so long held Ids own in the wilds of the West, despite the ceaseless efforts on the part of gamekeepers and agriculturists to exterminate him, bas finally succumbed.. The last specimen that I heard of In this part of the world was caught on Haddon in 1918. And where such as he failed to exist the squirrel, less wary by far, stands no chance. But, people ask, why should the squirrel be affected ? Gins are not set in the tree-top highways, neither about the woods as a rule. Not long ago a Devonshire squire, a keen naturalist and owner of an ancient park which once was famous for squirrels, refused to believe that trapping had anything to do with it. He had never allowed a gin to be set, he said, none the less he would to-day defy anybody to find .a squirrel on his estate. The answer is simple.; when the first hint of autumn is in the air, squirrel leaves the plantations, where he is safe, and takes to the hedgerows to feast on the hazel nuts, and gather his winter hoard. But; sad to relate, the fall of the leaf is also the trapper's carnival. Gins snap in every run-way, and woe to the uninitiated or incautious of foot who travel thereby. And caution is a thing that squirrel never learns. In the coverts he barks at the yokel with the gun, even though he must know by this time that the answer usually comes in shape of a charge of shot •; and alongside the nut-strewn rabbity hedgerows, where lurk perils innumerable, he darts like a little red whirlwind when he should be picking his way foot by foot, like an old fox stepping through short furze.. Again, at this season, his indefatigable energy carries him so far afield. There is so much to be done, so many nuts to be sampled and collected, and so little time to do it in. Traps never enter into his scheme of things at all, so he falls. Nowadays the woods seem incomplete without his quaint chuckle on bright winter mornings when he was wont to leave his nest for a few hours, to greet the sunshine, and perhaps visit his stores. We miss him and deplore the sentence of banishment which has been passed upon him.
DOUGLAS GORDON.
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