be at all surprised to learn that old Robin Redbreast whistled his prettiest that day, all for the enjoyment of the new babies. It wasn't long, anyway, before the youngsters could whistle back at him; for whistling is one of Fatty Woodchuck's best accomplishments. Eating and sleeping would run the whistle a close second, for I know of no animal (not including a growing boy) that can outstrip this canny old marmot at those two most enjoyable pastimes.
Mother Woodchuck led the babies down to the spring where the new plantain was just peeping out all green and tender. It seemed to them that life just couldn't contain anything else half so delicious. They nibbled the new grass and took a big drink at the old spring.
Father Woodchuck was sitting on his haunches in front of the burrow, keeping a sharp lookout during their little excursion. Had anything happened that would alarm him for their safety, he would have blown a low whistle through his butter-coloured teeth and had his whole family tumbling into the den in a jiffy. However, nothing looked very dangerous, so the little 'chucks
