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We had a squirrel's nest, or "drey," as it is called, near my house last year, and the squirrels have been about my lawn and the Forest trees ever since. They chattered to each other all the time, holding the galls between their fore feet, fragments dropping to the ground beneath the trees.
There he had built what he called a nest, but what humans, with greater nicety of diction, call a drey. Speak not of squirrel's "nest" to sportsmen; to speak of fox's "burrow" were hardly less heinous. The drey was eminently satisfactory, for, in the summer months, it was completely hidden. Yet three days inside it had been more than sufficient for the squirrel.
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