pear, no matter how few we lose. Shall we ever 

 learn to say, when the redtail swoops among the 

 pigeons, when the rabbits get into the cabbage, 

 when the robins rifle the cherry-trees, and when a 

 skunk helps himself to a hen for his Thanksgiving 

 dinner— shall we ever learn to love and under- 

 stand the fitness of things out of doors enough 

 to say. 



But then, poor beastie, thou maun live? 



The skunk is a famous digger. There are gi- 

 gantic stories in Maine, telling how he has been 

 seen to escape the hound by digging himself 

 out of sight in the middle of an open field. I 

 have never tried to run down a skunk, and so 

 never gave one the opportunity of showing me 

 all he is capable of as a lightning excavator; 

 but, unless all my experience is wrong, a skunk 

 would rather fight or run or even die than exert 

 himself to the extent of digging a home. In the 

 majority of cases their lairs are made by other 

 paws than their own. 



One of the skunk's common tricks is to take 

 up his abode with a woodchuck. As wood- 

 chucks, without exception, are decent sort of 

 [291] 



