242 THE LOG OF THE SUN 



upon the world and stows himself away at the 

 farthest end of his tunnel, there to sleep away 

 the winter. Little more does he know of the snows 

 and blizzards than the bird which has flown to the 

 tropics. Even storing up fruits or roots is too 

 great an effort for the indolent woodchuck, and in 

 his hibernation stupor he draws only upon the fat 

 which his lethargic summer life has accumulated 

 within his skin. 



As we might expect from a liver of such a sloth- 

 ful life, the family traits of the woodchuck are far 

 from admirable and there is said to be little affec- 

 tion shown by the mother woodchuck toward her 

 young. The poor little fellows are pushed out of 

 the burrow and driven away to shift for them- 

 selves as soon as possible. Many of them must 

 come to grief from hawks and foxes. Closely 

 related to the squirrels, these large marmots (for 

 they are first cousins to the prairie dogs) are as 

 unlike them in activity as they are in choice of a 

 haunt. 



What a contrast to all this is the trim feathered 

 form which we may see on the mill pond some 

 clear morning. Alert and wary, the grebe pad- 

 dles slowly along, watchful of every movement. 

 If we approach too closely, it may settle little by 

 little, like a submarine opening its water compart- 

 ments, until nothing is visible except the head with 

 its sharp beak. Another step and the bird has 

 vanished, swallowed up by the lake, and the 



