By this time my performance must have lasted nearly half an hour. I sang
or whistled "Bonnie Boon," "Lass o' Gowrie," "O'er the Water to
Charlie," "Bonnie Woods o' Cragie Lee," etc., all of which seemed to be
listened to with bright interest, my first Douglas sitting patiently
through it all, with his telling eyes fixed upon me until I ventured to
give the "Old Hundredth," when he screamed his Indian name,
Pillillooeet, turned tail, and darted with ludicrous haste up the tree
out of sight, his voice and actions in the case leaving a somewhat
profane impression, as if he had said, "I'll be hanged if you get me to
hear anything so solemn and unpiny." This acted as a signal for the
general dispersal of the whole hairy tribe, though the birds seemed
willing to wait further developments, music being naturally more in
their line.
What there can be in that grand old church-tune that is so offensive to
birds and squirrels I can't imagine. A year or two after this High
Sierra concert, I was sitting one fine day on a hill in the Coast Range
where the common Ground Squirrels were abundant. They were very shy on
account of being hunted so much; but after I had been silent and
motionless for half an hour or so they began to venture out of their
holes and to feed on the seeds of the grasses and thistles around me as
if I were no more to be feared than a tree-stump.
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