dog, or even that dog's nose, in the burrow. So he opened his jaws
suddenly. At that the dog went right over backward, all four legs in the
air, like a wooden dog. But the next instant he was on his feet again,
and tearing away like mad down the pasture, ki-yi-ing like a whipped
puppy, although he was a grown-up dog and ought to have been ashamed of
himself to make such a noise. And never after that, they tell me, could
he be persuaded under any circumstances to go within fifteen feet of
anything that looked like a woodchuck hole."

"I'm not one bit sorry for him," muttered the Babe in spite of himself.
"He had no business there at all."

"The mother of the woodchuck family," went on Uncle Andy, "was not so
cross as the father, but she was very careless. She would sit upon her
fat haunches in the door of the burrow while the babies were nibbling
around outside, pretending to keep an eye on them. But half the time she
would be sound asleep, with her head dropped straight down on her
stomach, between her little black paws. One day, as she was dozing thus
comfortably, a marsh hawk came flapping low overhead, and pounced on one
of the youngsters before it had time to more than squeak. At the sound
of that despairing squeak, to be sure, she woke up and made a savage rush
at the enemy. But the wary bird was already in the air, with the prize
drooping from his talons. And the mother could do nothing but sit up and
chatter after him abusively as he sailed away to his nest.

"You see, the mother was brave enough, as I said before, but very
careless. She was different from the ordinary run of woodchucks, in that
she had only three feet. She had lost her left hind paw."

"Was that because she was so careless?" asked the Babe.