Mad Squirrel

At Englewood, Col., last week Mrs. Roy Zilk saw a big squirrel in her chickenyard. She shushed at it, but it did not behave like an ordinary squirrel and run away. Instead it turned, glared, leaped at her, sank its teeth into her hand and arm.

Mrs. Zilk beat off the astounding animal. It scurried away, crossed the street, leaped at Lois Miller, 4, who was playing in her family's front yard. Lois screamed so loudly that neighbors came running from a block away. She tripped and fell. The mad rodent was savagely biting her scalp, her hands, her arms. When she got up it still clung to her by its teeth, embedded deep in her flesh.

Chief Jack Russell of the Englewood Police answered his telephone and heard a woman shout: "Come quick! A squirrel has a little girl down on the ground, biting her like a dog!" Incredulous, Chief Russell sped to the scene of action. He found frightened, bloody Lois in her mother's arms.

"It went down there!" they cried, pointing to a cellar door. Chief Russell drew his revolver, started downstairs. The squirrel, hiding just inside the cellar entrance, darted at the Chief, fastened itself on his trouser-leg. Believing at last, the policeman calmly kicked the animal to the bottom of the stairs. It sat there, blinking up at him. It must have rabies, he thought; he must not destroy its head, which the health authorities would want to examine. Carefully he aimed his service revolver, steadily fired, blew a hole through its shoulders. Then he went down and picked up the body of a huge male fox squirrel.

Throughout the U. S., suburban residents have been complaining this year of what amounts to a squirrel plague, while rural citizens bemoan that squirrels are near extinction. Naturalists explain that pothunters and automobiles have slain thousands over the countryside, while squirrels in close city trees and garrets are zealously, fondly protected.

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