€S)t :Sa^ of t^t &CK\Xt> 



leaves have drifted into the entrances, as if every 

 burrow were forsaken ; sand and sticks have washed 

 in, too. Uttering and choking the doorways. 



There is no sign of life. A stranger would find it 

 hard to believe that my whole drove of forty-six 

 ground hogs (woodchucks) are gently snoring at the 

 bottoms of these old uninteresting holes. Yet here 

 they are, and quite out of danger, sleeping the sleep 

 of the furry, the fat, and the forgetful. 



The woodchuck's is a curious shift, a case of Na- 

 ture outdoing herself. Winter spreads far and fast, 

 and Woodchuck, in order to keep ahead out of dan- 

 ger, would need wings. But he was n't given any. 

 Must he perish then ? Winter spreads far, but does 

 not go deep — down only about four feet ; and Wood- 

 chuck, if he cannot escape overland, can, perhaps, 

 underldLud. So down he goes t/iro7ig/i the winter, 

 down into a mild and even temperature, five long 

 feet away — but as far away from the snow and cold 

 as Bobolink among the reeds of the distant Orinoco. 



Indeed, Woodchuck's is a farther journey and even 

 more wonderful than Bobolink's, for these five feet 

 carry him beyond the bounds of time and space into 

 the mysterious realm of sleep, of suspended life, to 



12 



