Writers upon rural England and her familiar natural history make no
mention of the marmot or woodchuck. In Europe this animal seems to
be confined to the high mountainous districts, as on our Pacific
slope, burrowing near the snow-line. It is more social or
gregarious than the American species, living in large families like
our prairie dog. 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, from 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 WOODchuck as a
FIELDchuck. 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.
Let the rifleman shoot one while it lies basking on a sideling
rock, and its body slumps off, and rolls and spills down the hill,
as if it were a mass of bowels only. 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 bob-tailed 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 wood-chuck 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 he revolved 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 wood-chuck, 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 always 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 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.