After the Woodchuck. 



279 



red of an old dog fox in early winter 

 time. The hunt begins again, for the 

 sun is but just rising in the horizon. 

 What is done with the dead fellow? 

 Why, we place him in the shade on the 

 top of a big boulder and there he re- 

 mains until our return. Moving 

 cautiously along we come to another 

 favorite spot for my four-footed friend. 

 Once again the glass is raised and 

 close scrutiny is had of the surround- 

 ing fields. In a few moments one is 

 located. He is suspicious of his sur- 

 roundings for he rises often to scan 

 with keen vision whatever may be on 

 the move. When he drops down we 

 move forward, a matter of 200 yards 

 separates us. We step on a broken 

 branch, it cracks under foot like the 

 explosion of a gun cap. Mr. Chuck is 

 up in an instant, he is wary. He runs 

 swiftly to the entrance of his burrow. 

 Up he rises on his haunches and through 

 the glass we perceive that he is uneasy. 

 He moves up and down, and finding 

 nothing to disturb him, moves a short 

 distance from his home and resumes 

 his feeding. Then is our chance, we 

 run forward quickly. Confound the 

 luck this morning! We step on a loose 

 stone, not bigger than your fist. It 

 gives to the pressure and as the weight 

 is removed by a step forward, it rolls 

 out of its bed and goes crashing down 

 to the bottom of the ravine. In that 

 still air, the noise can be heard a quar- 

 ter of a mile. But how our friend 

 scampers for cover. He reaches it in a 

 trice and disappears over the earth that 

 is at the mouth of his home. We move 

 up to within a hundred yards and there 

 sit down. 



We know that as he has not yet had 

 his full meal he will shortly appear 

 again. Not a sound is heard save the 

 chirping of the crickets and the rat-a- 



tap of the woodpecker searching for his 

 breakfast. Fifteen minutes passes. 

 Then with cautious movement, that we 

 know from the fa6l of the length of 

 time it takes that almost speck to in- 

 crease in size. First comes the nose in 

 sight, then by degrees the whole head. 

 It moves from side to side. The 

 shoulders follow. Shall we shoot? 

 We know that if our aim is true, that, 

 that 200 grains of lead will drop him in 

 his tracks without a flutter. The 

 rifle goes to the shoulder. * The 

 bullet sings p-i-n-g as it whistles 

 through the air. A puff of dust 

 rises from the loose earth upon which 

 the woodchuck rests. Then follows 

 the mental excitement of the doubt as 

 to whether our aim has been correct 

 and the shot successful. The fact is 

 soon ascertained, for we run at good 

 pace to the spot. There reposes wood- 

 chuck. The ball struck him at the 

 shoulder. Of course, it went through 

 and through. Where it entered the 

 body the hole was small, but where it 

 came out — Oh! my! that is another 

 thing altogether. This one was not in 

 so fine coat as the first. 



We look at our watch. Goodness! 

 gracious! it is near seven o'clock. We 

 started at five, and are at least five 

 miles from home and breakfast. The 

 game is slung over our shoulders, and 

 we are off in a jiffy. Picking up the 

 other fellow on the way, we move 

 along at a brisk pace. Phew! the 

 weight begins to tell. It is great fun 

 hunting woodchucks, but getting them 

 home is another thing altogether. 



Thank the stars, our journey is 

 almost over. The perspiration is run- 

 ning in streams before we reach the 

 lane that runs to the house where I am 

 stopping. At last, the distance is 

 covered. The game is thrown on the 



