THE WAYS OF THE WOODCHUCK 233 



armed with an ancient gun and a perfect arsenal of 

 rusty old steel traps. They were talking in subdued 

 but excited tones, laying their plans deeply. Scraps 

 of their conversation floated back for a moment — 

 the beginnings of sentences, trailing off into indis- 

 tinguishableness : "Aw, yes, le's go — !" " Say, what 

 say if we — " and the like mysteries. A boy, a gun, 

 -a dog — and a woodchuck! What memories came 

 back to me! I saw green meadows daisy-starred, 

 and pasture slopes and the gleam of birches, and 

 caught again the scent of raspberries in the sun, and 

 heard across far fields the hot cicada-whir of a 

 mowing-machine ; and in my heart I felt once more 

 the ancient thrill as a chuck was sighted. Here, to 

 be sure, before my bodily eye, were meadows and 

 pastures, and no doubt berries grew by the garden 

 wall — but not the same berries, i" was not starting 

 out on the hunt. I was not plotting a Napoleonic 

 campaign against a crafty enemy. I was neither 

 huntsman nor adventurer. A woodchuck by a 

 pasture stump a simple woodchuck was to me, and 

 it was nothing more. I grew rather peevishly pen- 

 sive at the thought. I wanted to be a boy again. I 

 resented " the light of common day." I always want 

 to be a boy again when I see the youngsters after 

 woodchucks. It is the keenest present-day reminder 

 that any of us can have of the simpler, more earthy 

 and artless delights of youth in the America of a 

 vanishing generation. 



