138 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



that was shrill enough to be a whistle and a fuzzy 

 brown blur streaked for the stone wall, followed 

 by another. The cocker spaniel had decided, like 

 that boy, that he had got to get the woodchuck. 

 I fancy he thought he had him when they came 

 together about five feet outside the crevice in the 

 wall for which the woodchuck had made his 

 fuzzy bee line, but as a matter of fact the wood- 

 chuck got the first grip. His long yellow in- 

 cisors met in the cocker's shoulder and that 

 worthy gave forth a yelp of pain and indignation 

 as the battle began with that strange hold. 



I wish I might describe the Homeric conflict 

 that followed, but it was too full of action for 

 anyone to grasp the details. A furry pinwheel 

 revolved in varying planes, smearing the stubble 

 with gore and filling the air with cries of mingled 

 pain and defiance, for what seemed to an 

 astounded and perturbed small boy a good part 

 of the afternoon. Most of the gore and all the 

 cries came from the dog, for the woodchuck 

 fought in grim silence, though no whit more 

 pluckily than his opponent. In the end the dog 

 won, but he was the most devastated small dog 

 that I have ever seen, before or since, and had it 

 not been for prompt surgical aid at his home 



