The Bay of the Band 
leaves have drifted into the entrances, as if every 
burrow were forsaken; sand and sticks have washed 
in, too, littering 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 wasn’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, 
underland. So down he goes through 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 
