Old Mr. Woodchuck had a great deal of time on his paws. He was always telling people how a stone once rolled off a wall on top of him and hurt his back, so he was not strong enough to do much work. On pleasant days he was usually to be found sunning himself. And often when he leaned his lame back against a tree where the sun fell squarely upon him he would fall asleep and stay there for hours at a time.

Though he did no work at all, his appetite was always good. And when he heard that there were ripe apples, or lettuce, or some other dainty to be had, he always managed to get to the feast about as early as anybody else. At such times he seemed to forget how much his back hurt him.

There came a day when Mr. Woodchuck dashed home on a run. At first his wife thought there must be a fox chasing him. But as soon as he caught his breath (he was so fat that running always made him puff), he told Mrs. Woodchuck that a party of his friends was going to make a raid on Farmer Green’s clover-field.

“I’m going with them,” he said.

“Do you think you ought to?” she asked. “Isn’t it too far? Isn’t your back too lame?”

Mr. Woodchuck clapped his hands to his back and groaned a bit.

“They say there’s nothing better for my trouble than tender young clover-heads,” he replied. “So I think I ought to go.... What I came home for is this: We want some spry young fellow to come along with us and be a sentinel. And I’m going to take Billy. He’s old enough now to make himself of some use.”

“I don’t want him to go,” Mrs. Woodchuck said. “He’s only a child.”

“He has ears, hasn’t he? And eyes?” her husband replied. “It’s time he helped me a little, after all I’ve done for him.”

Billy Woodchuck was sure that he wanted to go. He was listening to every word.

“What’s a sentinel?” he asked.

“A sentinel is a guard,” his father told him. “It is his duty to sit upon a knoll and watch for men and dogs, while his friends eat the clover. And if he sees or hears a man or a dog—or any other enemy—he whistles as loud as he can. That’s the danger signal. And just as soon as they hear it, all the other chucks run away.”

“Please let me go, Mother!” Billy begged.

“It’s very dangerous,” Mrs. Woodchuck objected.

“No danger at all!” Mr. Woodchuck said. “Come on!”

And off they went, though Mrs. Woodchuck was far from pleased.

Mr. Woodchuck hurried over to a big oak, where his friends were waiting for him. There were almost a dozen of them—fat, elderly gentlemen. But they were very spry about reaching the clover-field.

Billy felt proud as a peacock when they left him alone on a knoll at the edge of the clover-patch and told him to keep a sharp ear out.

“And remember! At the first sign of danger, you must give a loud, shrill whistle,” his father warned him. Then Mr. Woodchuck hurried away.

Billy could see his father and the others eating clover-tops as fast as they could pull them off. And he soon began to think that they were having more fun than he was. He grew tired of sitting still in one place. And just a little distance away he noticed a clump of fine clover. As the tops waved gently in the breeze they seemed to beckon to him.

Soon Billy was eating clover, too. And it was so good that he forgot all about being a sentinel. He forgot all about listening for danger. And then all at once he heard a cry:

“Sick him, Spot!”

It was Johnnie Green calling to his dog.