Riddonkulous

I’m not a cat, nor a fox, nor a tree, Yet I fuss where the snippers roam free. I march in orange, I mutter, I warn, Of the greedy hands that leave forests forlorn. I speak for the silent, the leafy, the small, Though shorter than stout, I outshout them all. Who am I, this grumpy, mustachioed chap, That guards the green woods, then vanishes-zap?