Roof and Meadow | Page 6

away from his hole. It was steep downhill. I should land upon him in
half a dozen bounds more.
On we went, reckless of the uneven ground, momentum increasing with
every jump, until, accurately calculating his speed and the changing
distance between us, I rose with a mighty leap, sailed into the air and
came down--just an inch too far ahead--on a round stone, turned my
ankle, and went sprawling over the woodchuck in a heap.
The woodchuck spilled himself from under me, slid short about, and
tumbled off for home by way of the dewberry-patch.
He had made a good start before I was righted and again in motion.

Now it was steep, very steep, uphill--which did not seem to matter
much to the woodchuck, but made a great difference to me. Then, too, I
had counted on a simple, straightaway dash, and had not saved myself
for this lap and climbing home-stretch.
Still I was gaining,--more slowly this time,--with chances yet good of
overtaking him short of the hole, when, in the thick of the
dewberry-vines, I tripped, lunged forward three or four stumbling
strides, and saw the woodchuck turn sharp to the right in a bee-line for
his burrow.
I wheeled, jumped, cut after him, caught him on the toe of my boot, and
lifting him, plopped him smoothly, softly into his hole.
It was gently done. And so beautifully! The whole feat had something
of the poetic accuracy of an astronomical calculation. And the perfectly
lovely dive I helped him make home!
I sat down upon his mound of earth to get myself together and to enjoy
it all. What a 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 beneath 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, however, 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 huckleberries to a
peach-tree is no sign that all the woodchucks on the hillside are going
to forsake the huckleberries with him. Only humans are silly enough
for that.
If the woodchucks should come, all of them, it would be extremely
interesting--an event worth many peaches.

THREE SERMONS

[Illustration]
THREE SERMONS
I
Thou shalt not preach.
The woods were as empty as some great empty house; they were
hollow and silent and somber. I stood looking in among the leafless
trees, heavy in spirit at the quiet and gloom, when close by my side
spoke a tiny voice. I started, so suddenly, so unexpectedly it broke into
the wide December silence, so far it echoed through the empty forest
halls.
"What!" I exclaimed, turning in my tracks and addressing a small
brown-leafed beech. "What! little Hyla, are you still out? You! with a
snow-storm brewing and St. Nick due here to-morrow night?" And then
from within the bush, or on it, or under it, or over it, came an answer,
_Peep, peep, peep!_ small and shrill, dropping into the silence of the
woods and stirring it as three small pebbles might drop into the middle
of a wide sleeping pond.
It was one of those gray, heavy days of the early winter--one of the

vacant, spiritless days of portent that wait hushed and numb before a
coming storm. Not a crow, nor a jay, nor a chickadee had heart enough
to cheep. But little Hyla, the tree-frog, was nothing daunted. Since the
last week in February, throughout the spring and the noisy summer on
till this dreary time, he had been cheerfully, continuously piping. This
was his last call.
_Peep, peep, peep!_ he piped in February; _Peep, peep, peep!_ in
August; _Peep, peep, peep!_ in December. But did he?
"He did just that," replies the scientist, "and that only."
"Not at all," I answer.
"What authority have you?" he asks. "You are not scientific. You are
merely a dreaming, fooling hanger-on