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.