tSit &Ci^ of t()^ &a\xi> 



My skeptic had too many acres. She went to the 

 seashore one summer, then to the mountains, then 

 to a farm, and now she doubts the existence of crabs 

 and woodchucks. Well she may. She might almost 

 doubt the reality of the mountains and shore, to say 

 nothing of the farm. One can scarcely come to be- 

 lieve in a mountain in the course of a mere June. 

 The trouble is one of size. As well try to make 

 friends with a crowded street. Crabs and woodchucks 

 live in little holes. You must hunt for the holes; 

 you must wait until the woodchucks come out. 



For more than five years now I have been hunting 

 holes here on the farm, and it is astonishing the 

 number I have discovered. I doubt if driving past 

 you would see anything extraordinary in this small 

 farm of mine, — a steep, tree-grown ridge, with a 

 house at the top, a patch of garden, a bit of meadow, 

 a piece of woods, a stream, a few old apple trees, a 

 rather sterile, stony field. But live here as I do, mow 

 and dig and trim and chop as I do, know all the paths, 

 the stumps, the stone heaps, the tree holes, earth 

 holes, — there simply is no end of holes, and they are 



all inhabited. 



By actual count there are forty-six woodchuck 



203 



