Billy Woodchuck grew so fast that he soon looked very much like his father. Of course, he was still much smaller than Mr. Woodchuck. But like him, Billy was quite gray; and he had whiskers, too—though, to be sure, those were black. His eyes also were black and large and bright. When Billy sat up on his hind legs—as he often did—he appeared for all the world like a huge squirrel.

In fact, some of Billy’s friends remarked how like a squirrel he looked. And one day when Billy was playing near the edge of the woods a disagreeable young hedgehog told him that. To tell the truth, Billy Woodchuck had grown to be the least bit vain. He loved to gaze upon his bushy tail; and he spent a good deal of time stroking his whiskers. He hoped that the neighbors had noticed them.

Now, other people are always quick to see when anyone is silly in that way. And the young hedgehog thought that Billy Woodchuck needed taking down a peg. So he said to him:

“Why don’t you join the circus?”

“Circus? What’s that?” Billy asked.

“A circus is a place where they have all kinds of freaks,” the hedgehog answered with a sly smile—“giants and dwarfs, and thin people and fat people.”

“But I’m not a freak,” Billy Woodchuck replied. “Of course, I’m big for my age. But I’m not a giant.”

“Yes, you are,” the hedgehog insisted.

“You’re a giant squirrel. You look like him”—he pointed to a young fellow called Frisky Squirrel—“only you’re ever so much bigger.”

That made Billy Woodchuck very angry. And he began to chatter and scold.

Wise old Mr. Crow, who sat in a tree nearby, told him to keep his temper.

“Certainly you are not a squirrel,” he said. “It is nonsense to say that a ground hog is the same as a squirrel——”

Billy Woodchuck’s voice broke into a shrill scream. A ground hog! He was terribly angry.

“Why, yes!” Mr. Crow said, nodding his head with a knowing air. “You’re a marmot, you know.”

“No, I’m not!” Billy cried. “I’m a woodchuck! That’s what I am. And I’m going home and tell my mother what horrid names you’ve been calling me.”

Mr. Crow laughed. He said nothing more. But as Billy hurried away he could hear the young hedgehog calling:

“Ground hog! Marmot! Ground hog! Marmot!” over and over again.

Billy Woodchuck was surprised to see how calm his mother was when he told her those horrid names. He had rather expected that she would hurry over to the woods and say a few things to that young hedgehog, and to old Mr. Crow as well. But she only said:

“Don’t be silly! Of course you’re a ground hog. You’re an American marmot, too. Though our family has been known in this neighborhood for many years as the Woodchuck family, you needn’t be ashamed of either of those other names. Isn’t ‘ground hog’ every bit as good a name as ‘hedgehog?’”

Billy Woodchuck began to think it was. And as for “marmot”—that began to have quite a fine sound in his ears.

“Why can’t we change our name to that?” he asked his mother.

But Mrs. Woodchuck shook her head.

“We are plain country people,” she said. “Woodchuck is the best name for us.”