Читать книгу Uncle Wiggily and the Littletails - Howard R Garis - Страница 9

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Early the next morning Mrs. Wren, who had spent the night in the burrow home of the Littletail family, got up. She had some cabbage leaves for her breakfast, and then started to leave.

“Where are you going?” asked Susie Littletail.

“I must go hunt for a nest,” said the little bird. “You see, I want to begin housekeeping as early as I can this Spring. As there are so many birds coming up from the South, I want to get a house before all the best ones are taken.”

So, having thanked Sammie Littletail for showing her the way to the burrow, and also thanking his mamma and papa, the wren bird flew away. She promised, however, to come back if she could not find a place to start housekeeping.

“That Mrs. Wren is a very nice creature indeed,” said Mamma Littletail.

“Indeed she is,” agreed Papa Littletail, as he started off to work in the carrot store, where he was employed as a bookkeeper.

“It is a nice day,” said Uncle Wiggily Longears, after a while. “I think I shall go for a walk. It may do my rheumatism good.”

“May I come?” asked Sammie; but his uncle said he thought the little boy rabbit should stay home. So Sammie did, and he and Susie found a place where some nice clover was just coming up in a field. They nibbled the sweet leaves.

Just before dinner time Uncle Wiggily Longears came limping back to the burrow. He was running and hopping as hard as he could, but that was not very fast.

“Why, Wiggily, whatever has happened?” asked Mrs. Littletail, who had come to the front door to see if her children were all right. “Is your rheumatism worse? Why do you limp so?”

“Because,” answered Uncle Wiggily Longears, “I have been shot.”

“Shot?” cried Mrs. Littletail.

“In the left hind leg,” went on Uncle Wiggily. “The same leg that has the rheumatism in it so bad. Oh, dear! I wish you would please send for Dr. Possum.”

“I will; right away. Sammie!” Mrs. Littletail called, “go for Dr. Possum, for your uncle. He has been shot. How did it happen, Wiggily?”

“Well, I was down in the swamp, looking for some sassafras root, which Mr. Drake said was good for rheumatism, when a man fired a gun at me. I jumped, but not in time, and several pieces of lead are in my leg.”

“Oh, how dreadful!” cried Mamma Littletail.

In a little while Sammie came back with Dr. Possum.

“Ha! This is bad business,” spoke the long-tailed doctor, when he looked at Uncle Wiggily’s leg. “I fear I shall have to operate.”

“Anything, so you get the shot out,” said the old rabbit. “Oh, how I suffer!”

Dr. Possum tried to get the leaden pellets out of Uncle Wiggily’s leg, but he could not, they were in so deep.

“This is very bad business, indeed,” said Dr. Possum. “I fear I shall have to take your leg off.”

“Will it hurt?” asked Uncle Wiggily.

“Um-er-well, not very much,” said the animal doctor, as he twirled his glasses on his tail.

Just then, who should come into the burrow but Mrs. Wren. She was very much surprised to see Uncle Wiggily lying on a bed of soft grass, with the doctor bending over him.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“I have been shot,” said Uncle Wiggily, “and the doctor cannot get the bullets out.”

“Suppose you let me try,” said Mrs. Wren. “I have a very sharp bill, and I think I can pull them out.”

“Then you are a sort of a doctor,” said Uncle Wiggily. “Go ahead, and see what you can do.”

“Yes, do,” urged Dr. Possum.

So the little brown bird put her beak in the holes in Uncle Wiggily’s leg, where the bullets had gone in, and she pulled every one out. It hurt a little, but Uncle Wiggily did not make much of a fuss.

“There,” said Mrs. Wren at last, “that is done. They’re all out!”

Then Dr. Possum put some salve on the leg and bound it up, promising to come in next day to see how Uncle Wiggily was getting on.

“Did you find a nest-house?” asked Mamma Littletail of the bird.

“No,” was the answer, “I think I shall have to stay with you another night, if you will let me. Perhaps I shall find a nest to-morrow.”

So she stayed with the Littletail family another night, and in the next story I shall tell you how Mrs. Wren found a nest. But please ask the milk bottle not to turn a somersault on the back steps and scare the loaf of bread.