I never tire of watching the chipmunks as they go about their fall activities. I sometimes hear them before I see them. A sudden rustling of the dry leaves, then a mad dash, finished by their characteristic “chipping,” which could easily be mistaken for birds chirping. It usually signals the end of another day’s work, as they all join in from different parts of my property, striking up quite a chorus for such small creatures.

I suspect that the hill upon which my humble dwelling sits is a veritable chipmunk community, a maze of tunnels that open in places I’d least expect. I see a quick darting, then suddenly, the chipmunk is gone, vanishing down a hole hidden by grass or moss. It reappears some distance away, then scampers across the woodpile to disappear once again under a rock or fallen tree trunk.

Each year, as I mow or rake, I discover new holes where there were none before, and I always wonder what it looks like down there in those dark spaces in tunnels that wind through a network of tree roots and buried stones. I remember a cartoon I watched as a child during the 1950s called “Chip ”˜n’ Dale,” about two humanized chipmunks whose subterranean digs were quite fancy and well decorated, complete with tiny beds, reading lamps and curtain-adorned windows. After spending an hour or two watching chipmunks darting in and out of their burrows, it is easy to see how a cartoonist might arrive at such a fantasy.

A few weeks ago, I was visiting a friend, and as we walked outside admiring her daylily border, we noticed a hole where there had been none before, along with a mound of excavated material about a foot from the hole. We both marveled at the resourcefulness of these little animals, as it was obvious they’d spent quite some time carrying the dirt a safe distance away from the entrance to the burrow. Chipmunks do this so that the dirt doesn’t wash back and refill the hole. Later, I marveled still further to think of what they are able to accomplish with nothing but their two tiny paws and a great deal of perseverance and stamina.

These tiny creatures are a pleasure to watch as they climb high up into the oak trees then run back down with their cheeks puffed full of acorns. They chase each other through piles of dry leaves and sit on logs and rocks calling out to each other in their distinctive voices. Sometimes I stand on the back porch watching them just a few feet away. They’ve become quite tolerant of me over time and are not so quick to scurry away if they see me nearby. It is almost as if they, like us, are feeling the crispness in the air and are celebrating it, for at no other time during the year are they so perky, so full of energy and so in-tune with nature who will soon pull her great, white quilt across their world.

— Rachel Lovejoy is a freelance writer living in Lyman. She can be reached at rlovejoy84253@roadrunner.com.