The Woodchuck

In the Middle and Eastern States our woodchuck takes the place, in some

respects, of the English rabbit, burrowing in every hillside and under

every stone wall and jutting ledge and large boulder, whence it makes

raids upon the grass and clover and sometimes upon the garden

vegetables. It is quite solitary in its habits, seldom more than one

inhabiting the same den, unless it be a mother and her young. It is not

now so much a _wood_ chuck as a _field_ chuck. Occasionally, however,

one seems to prefer the woods, and is not seduced by the sunny slopes

and the succulent grass, but feeds, as did his fathers before him, upon

roots and twigs, the bark of young trees, and upon various wood plants.



One summer day, as I was swimming across a broad, deep pool in the creek

in a secluded place in the woods, I saw one of these sylvan chucks amid

the rocks but a few feet from the edge of the water where I proposed to

touch. He saw my approach, but doubtless took me for some water-fowl,

or for some cousin of his of the muskrat tribe; for he went on with his

feeding, and regarded me not till I paused within ten feet of him and

lifted myself up. Then he did not know me, having, perhaps, never seen

Adam in his simplicity, but he twisted his nose around to catch my

scent; and the moment he had done so he sprang like a jumping-jack and

rushed into his den with the utmost precipitation.



The woodchuck is the true serf among our animals; he belongs to the

soil, and savors of it. He is of the earth, earthy. There is generally a

decided odor about his dens and lurking places, but it is not at all

disagreeable in the clover-scented air; and his shrill whistle, as he

takes to his hole or defies the farm dog from the interior of the stone

wall, is a pleasant summer sound. In form and movement the woodchuck is

not captivating. His body is heavy and flabby. Indeed, such a flaccid,

fluid, pouchy carcass I have never before seen. It has absolutely no

muscular tension or rigidity, but is as baggy and shaky as a skin filled

with water. The legs of the woodchuck are short and stout, and made for

digging rather than running. The latter operation he performs by short

leaps, his belly scarcely clearing the ground. For a short distance he

can make very good time, but he seldom trusts himself far from his hole,

and, when surprised in that predicament, makes little effort to escape,

but, grating his teeth, looks the danger squarely in the face.



I knew a farmer in New York who had a very large bobtailed churn-dog by

the name of Cuff. The farmer kept a large dairy and made a great deal of

butter, and it was the business of Cuff to spend nearly the half of each

summer day treading the endless round of the churning-machine. During

the remainder of the day he had plenty of time to sleep and rest, and

sit on his hips and survey the landscape. One day, sitting thus, he

discovered a woodchuck about forty rods from the house, on a steep

sidehill, feeding about near his hole, which was beneath a large rock.

The old dog, forgetting his stiffness, and remembering the fun he had

had with woodchucks in his earlier days, started off at his highest

speed, vainly hoping to catch this one before he could get to his hole.

But the woodchuck, seeing the dog come laboring up the hill, sprang to

the mouth of his den, and, when his pursuer was only a few rods off,

whistled tauntingly and went in. This occurred several times, the old

dog marching up the hill, and then marching down again, having had his

labor for his pains.



I suspect that he revolved the subject in his mind while revolving the

great wheel of the churning-machine, and that some turn or other brought

him a happy thought, for next time he showed himself a strategist.

Instead of giving chase to the woodchuck, when first discovered, he

crouched down to the ground, and, resting his head on his paws, watched

him. The woodchuck kept working away from his hole, lured by the tender

clover, but, not unmindful of his safety, lifted himself up on his

haunches every few moments and surveyed the approaches. Presently, after

the woodchuck had let himself down from one of these attitudes of

observation and resumed his feeding, Cuff started swiftly but stealthily

up the hill, precisely in the attitude of a cat when she is stalking a

bird. When the woodchuck rose up again, Cuff was perfectly motionless

and half hid by the grass. When he again resumed his clover, Cuff sped

up the hill as before, this time crossing a fence, but in a low place,

and so nimbly that he was not discovered. Again the woodchuck was on the

outlook, again Cuff was motionless and hugging the ground. As the dog

neared his victim he was partially hidden by a swell in the earth, but

still the woodchuck from his outlook reported "All right," when Cuff,

having not twice as far to run as the chuck, threw all stealthiness

aside and rushed directly for the hole. At that moment the woodchuck

discovered his danger, and, seeing that it was a race for life, leaped

as I never saw marmot leap before. But he was two seconds too late, his

retreat was cut off, and the powerful jaws of the old dog closed upon

him.



The next season Cuff tried the same tactics again with like success, but

when the third woodchuck had taken up his abode at the fatal hole, the

old churner's wits and strength had begun to fail him, and he was

baffled in each attempt to capture the animal.



The woodchuck usually burrows on a sidehill. This enables him to guard

against being drowned out, by making the termination of the hole higher

than the entrance. He digs in slantingly for about two or three feet,

then makes a sharp upward turn and keeps nearly parallel with the

surface of the ground for a distance of eight or ten feet farther,

according to the grade. Here he makes his nest and passes the winter,

holing up in October or November and coming out again in March or April.

This is a long sleep, and is rendered possible only by the amount of fat

with which the system has become stored during the summer. The fire of

life still burns, but very faintly and slowly, as with the draughts all

closed and the ashes heaped up. Respiration is continued, but at longer

intervals, and all the vital processes are nearly at a standstill. Dig

one out during hibernation (Audubon did so), and you find it a mere

inanimate ball, that suffers itself to be moved and rolled about without

showing signs of awakening. But bring it in by the fire, and it

presently unrolls and opens its eyes, and crawls feebly about, and if

left to itself will seek some dark hole or corner, roll itself up again,

and resume its former condition.