When Squirrels Came to South Bend

In 1909 city leaders concocted a scheme to reintroduce squirrels to the city. Several generations later, they're still here.

BY AARON HELMAN // POSTED JANUARY 17, 2026

In 1909, South Bend had a problem. The city had urbanized at a rapid rate, often haphazardly and faster than the city's planners could manage. They'd added nearly 20,000 in population during the previous decade, and no sooner was an industrial factory expansion completed that another one was needed. The result of that growth meant wealth and at least some prosperity, but it also meant an out-of-control urban sprawl that left residents bereft of beauty, wilderness, and connection to the natural world.

The city had tried to address the problem in years past. It had opened Leeper and Howard parks in previous years, but both properties were a decade old. During that time, the footprint of South Bend's factories had doubled, while the acreage of its parks remained the same.

There had to be something they could do to provide residents a connection with nature, but there wasn't much room or money to add another park. They needed another idea. An out-of-the-box idea.

That's when a brave and brilliant man raised his hand and offered city officials the solution they'd been looking for.

“How about squirrels?”

The urbanization of squirrels was not a novel idea nor was it a particularly new one. American sophisticates had long been fond of squirrels, at least since the days of Benjamin Franklin. Franklin himself kept a pet squirrel named Mungo, and when the critter was killed by a dog, Franklin was moved to write an epitaph for his lost pet. Seriously — Google it.

In 1847, 57 years after Franklin died (and 75 years after Mungo died), Philadelphia became the first constituency to deliberately introduce squirrels into its cityscape, and the American squirrel craze kicked into a full-throated frenzy. Similar squirrel initiatives appeared in New York and Boston and then in cities and towns all over the east coast. It's hard to believe, but before the 1850s, squirrel populations were entirely non-existent in America's cities.

Of course, that was all going to change.

Squirrels were a relatively inexpensive investment. They were readily available at pet stores, and all they needed to thrive was a few nesting boxes, maybe a few trees, and a couple sacks of seed and nuts to see them through the winter. It was certainly better than building a park, and for the people of the day, maybe even more delightful.

The naturalist John Burroughs wrote that the squirrel was an “elegant creature, so cleanly neat in its habits, so graceful in its carriage, so nimble and daring in its movements.” Urbanites fell in love with friendly squirrels, and it wasn't uncommon for children, businessmen, and factory workers to keep nibbles of seed in their pockets at all times — just in case they should have the good fortune to happen upon one of the delightful little rodents.

Squirrels were, however, a somewhat controversial critter to have around, especially beyond the east coast. For pioneers and rural types, squirrels were at best, something that could be eaten. At worst, they were harmful swarming rodents that could devastate crops. In his attempt to tame the west, Teddy Roosevelt had once waged a war on the little nut munchers.

An American's opinion on squirrels told you a lot about a person's station in life. Rugged and uncultured frontiersmen hated them and ate them. Urban sophisticates, on the other hand, found them delightful and charming. They were pleased and thrilled to have cities filled with hundreds of shared urban pets.

South Bend had long put its frontier days behind it. It was chasing the ideals of becoming a proper city, and that meant it needed squirrels.

 

 

The idea was mentioned during a meeting of the Humane Society in May 1909, and the discussion was lively, supportive, and enthusiastic. For some reason and without being coaxed to do so, Burr Stephenson of the Stephenson Underwear Mill admitted that he kept several squirrels as pets at the factory, but that one had been killed by a child with an air gun.

The Humane Society promised to investigate the killer.

But soon enough, South Bend was stocked and squirreled, the way so many east coast cities had already done. Not to be outdone, Mishawaka squirreled up a month later, and soon enough Mishawaka's squirrels were making friends with the residents. The newspapers reported that they had been climbing all over a 48-year-old man named Jasper Hutchinson, much to the delight of the man and the squirrels. Indeed, squirrel watching became a favorite pastime for many across the city. It was, as they say, a simpler time.

Attitudes toward squirrels changed and shifted in the decades to come. The automotive revolution made them roadkill. During the Depression, it felt wasteful to spend money to feed them. By the time Americans had TVs, they didn't have to watch the squirrels anymore. And then, by the 1980s, public sentiment started to shift in large ways against the once sacred friendship that existed between man and squirrel. Feeding the squirrels was no longer seen as a kindness. It was seen as a disruption to the natural ecological cycle, a veritable perversion of the circle of life.

200 years after Mungo's tragic passing, Americans forgot the wonder of the squirrel. Today's South Bend squirrels are descended from the handful of pets that the Stephensons kept inside their underwear factory, but go too often unnoticed and unappreciated.

That's a shame, because according to naturalist Vernon Bailey:

“Squirrels are probably our best known and most loved native wild animals, as they are not very wild and, being very intelligent, accept and appreciate our hospitality and friendship.”

Aaron Helman is an author, historian and adventurer from South Bend. You may have seen him around South Bend drinking coffee. Learn more about his work or check out his books at aaronhelman.com.