THE WAY OF A WOODCHUCK 143 



went at them at the first blink of dawn and grot 

 them off his mind. Then he retired to his bur- 

 row just on the corner of the garden before 

 either the sun or I got up, and slept the dream- 

 less sleep of one who has labored righteously and 

 fed well. I suspect him of letting out his belt a 

 hole a day on this plethora of protein that I had 

 been coaxing up the bean poles all the spring. 



After that for the balance of the day Mr. 

 Woodchuck was a dilettante, sitting at his door 

 in the sun and dreaming dreams of artistic ele- 

 gance in horticulture. I used to see him there 

 about 10 A. M., wrinkling his forehead in the 

 perplexity of artistic temperament, batting a 

 speculative eye at me meanwhile, but not in any 

 spirit of resentment. In fact, he had nothing to 

 resent. He had absorbed the unearned incre- 

 ment and I had my original capital, the bean 

 poles, intact — and that's more than most of us 

 realize on small investments, nowadays. So I 

 dare say he thought I had nothing to feel grieved 

 about. Later he would sally forth and carry out 

 his artistic dreams on my Hubbard squashes. I 

 have never had Hubbard squashes pruned into 

 such artistic shapes as that year. The squash 

 vine is a great stragger if left to its own devices. 



