NOTES BY THE WAY 



is of the earth, earthy. There is generally a decided 

 odor about his dens and lurking-places, but it is 

 not at all disagreeable in the clover-scented air; and 

 his shrill whistle, as he takes to his hole or defies 

 the farm dog from the interior of the stone wall, 

 is a pleasant summer sound. In form and move- 

 ment the woodchuck is not captivating. His body 

 is heavy and flabby. Indeed, such a flaccid, fluid, 

 pouchy carcass I have never before seen. It has 

 absolutely no muscular tension or rigidity, but is 

 as baggy and shaky as a skin filled with water, Let 

 the rifleman shoot one while it lies basking on a side- 

 ling rock, and its body slumps off, and rolls and 

 spills down the hill, as if it were a mass of bowels 

 only. The legs of the woodchuck are short and 

 stout, and made for digging rather than running. 

 The latter operation he performs by short leaps, 

 his belly scarcely clearing the ground. For a short 

 distance he can make very good time, but he sel- 

 dom trusts himself far from his hole, and, when 

 surprised in that predicament, makes little effort 

 to escape, but, grating his teeth, looks the danger 

 squarely in the face. 



I knew a farmer in New York who had a very 

 large bob-tailed churn-dog by the name of Cuff. 

 The farmer kept a large dairy and made a great 

 deal of butter, and it was the business of Cuff to 

 spend nearly the half of each summer day treading 

 the endless round of the churning-machine. During 

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