woodchuck ! Perhaps he never could do the 

 trick again ; but, then, he won't need to. All 

 the murder was gone from my heart. He had 

 beaten the boots. He had beaten them so neatly, 

 so absolutely, that simple decency compelled me 

 then and there to turn over that Crawford peach- 

 tree, root and stem, to the woodchuck, his heirs 

 and assigns forever. 



By way of celebration he has thrown out 

 nearly a cart-load of sand from somewhere be- 

 neath the tree, deepening and enlarging his 

 home. My Swedish neighbor, viewing the hole 

 recently, exclaimed : "Dose vuudshuck, I t'ink 

 him kill dem dree ! " Perhaps so. As yet, how- 

 ever, the tree grows on without a sign of hurt. 



But suppose the tree does die ? Well, there is 

 no certainty of its bearing good fruit. There 

 was once a peddler of trees, a pious man and a 

 Quaker, who made a mistake, selling the wrong 

 tree. Besides, there are other trees in the 

 orchard ; and, if necessary, I can buy peaches. 



Yes, but what if other woodchucks should seek 

 other roof- trees in the peach row? They won't. 

 There are no fashions, no such emulations, out- 

 of-doors. Because one woodchuck moves from 

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