The big stump was on the other side of the stream. Fred had crossed it in the fall, when the stream was low, but now that it was spring the water level was quite high. Woodchucks can swim. Some even enjoy it. But not Fred. Nor did he like the idea of using the bridge. Cars and trucks were dangerous, and worse, they spewed exhaust fumes that soiled and stunk up your fur.
“Nobody could be worth getting all wet or dirty for,” he decided.
The next time Fred went over to the stream to wash his supply of food, he was surprised to see a fir tree lying across the rushing torrent. “Beavers,” he said to himself. But on closer inspection he saw that the trunk had been blasted, not gnawed, and he recalled the bone-shivering crack that had followed the thunderclap the day he’d been stuck in the tree.
“Lightning,” he murmured.
It was as if this car-free bridge had fallen here specially for him, and as he made his way across it, he wondered if the mourning woodchuck might somehow be his destiny. But when he got to the big stump he hesitated. Though the entrance to her burrow was in plain sight, between two roots, he wasn’t the sort of woodchuck to walk into a stranger’s house unannounced. He waited and watched, half hidden by a clump of wild columbine.
In a few minutes a young raccoon ambled up to the burrow entrance and called in:
“Babette?”
Out skipped a female woodchuck—a ravishing creature with a brilliant coat and sparkling eyes.
“What’s up?” she said.
“Want to play hide-and-seek?” the raccoon asked.
“Hide-and-seek. Um, I don’t think so.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Sorry, I’m not in a hide-and-seek kind of mood. Maybe another time.”
The woodchuck ducked back into her burrow, and the raccoon heaved a sigh and trudged away. He was hardly out of sight when a mink showed up, holding a pinecone behind his back.
“Babette?”
The woodchuck reappeared.
“Hi!” said the mink. “It’s been three days!”
“Has it?” said Babette.
“Three days and two hours. Look what I found!” The mink revealed his pinecone. “Better than that stick, huh?”
“What stick?”
“The one we threw in the water and followed downstream. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten!”
“Oh, yeah, the stick.”
“Go ahead.” The mink presented her with the pinecone, and she stepped closer to the bank and threw it into the stream.
“Great toss!” cried the mink. “Let’s go!”
“You go,” Babette said. “Last time those prickers caught in my fur.”