Tattine | Page 5

doubtless a great deal to do with it, but I want to tell you something that I think will give you just a grain of comfort. I read the other day that Sir John Franklin, the great Arctic explorer, who almost lost his life in being attacked by some huge animal--it must have been a bear, I think--says that the animal when he first gets you in his teeth gives you such a shake that it paralyzes your nerves--this is, it benumbs all your feelings, so, that, strange as it may seem, you really do not suffer. So let us hope that it was that way with this little rabbit."
"But there's a little blood here on one side, Mamma."
"That doesn't always prove suffering, either, Tattine. Soldiers are sometimes wounded without ever knowing it until they see a little sign of blood somewhere."
Tattine listened attentively to all this, and was in a measure comforted. It seemed that Mamma was still able to better things, even though not able to set everything perfectly right. "Now," Tattine said,--with a little sigh of relief, "I think I will try and see what I can do for Bunny. Perhaps he would first like a drink," so downstairs she went, and putting some milk in a shallow tea-cup, she dipped Bunny's nose in it, and it seemed to her as though he did take a little of it. Then she trudged up to the garret for a box, and, putting a layer of cotton-batting in the bottom, laid Bunny in one corner. Then she went to the garden and pulled a leaf or two of the youngest, greenest lettuce, and put it right within reach of Bunny's nose, and a little saucer of water beside it. Then she went down to tell the gardener's little boy all about the sorrowful thing that had happened.
The next morning Bunny was still breathing, but the lettuce was un-nibbled; he had not moved an inch, and he was trembling like a leaf. "Mamma," she called upstairs, "I think I'll put BUN in the sun" (she was trying not to be too down-hearted); "he seems to be a little chilly." Then she sat herself down in the sun to watch him. Soon Bunny ceased to tremble. "Patrick," she called to the old man who was using the lawn mower, "is this little rabbit dead?"
"Yes, miss, shure," taking the little thing gently in his hand.
"Very well," she answered quietly. Tattine used those two little words very often; they meant that she accepted the situation, if you happen to know what that means. "Now I think I will not trouble Mamma about it," she said to herself thoughtfully, so she went to the closet under the stairs, got a little empty box she knew was there, and, taking it out of doors, she put the little rabbit in it, and then trudged down to the tool-house for her spade and rake.
"Bunny is dead, Joey," she called to the gardener's little boy as she came back. "Come help me bury him," and so Joey trotted behind her to the spot already selected. "We must make this hole good and deep," she explained (Joey stood looking on in wide-eyed wonder), "for if Doctor and Betsy would kill a little live rabbit, there is no telling but they would dig up a dead one." So the hole was made at least four inches deep, Bunny was buried in it, and the earth, with Joey's assistance, stamped down hard, but afterwards it was loosened somewhat to plant a little wild-wood plant atop of the tiny grave. "Now, Joey, you wait here till I go bring something for a tombstone," Tattine directed, and in a second she was back again with the cover of a box in one hand and a red crayon in the other. Sitting flat upon the grass, she printed on the cover in rather irregular letters:--
BORN--I don't know when. DIED June 17th. LAVERACK SETTERS NOT ALLOWED.
This she put securely into place, while Joey raked up a little about the spot, and they left the little rabbit grave looking very neat and tidy. The next morning Tattine ran out to see how the little wild-wood plant was growing, and then she stood with her arms akimbo in blank astonishment. The little grave had disappeared. She kicked aside the loose earth, and saw that box and Bunny were both gone, and, not content with that, they had partially chewed up the tombstone, which lay upon its face a little distance away. They, of course, meant Betsy and Doctor. "There was no use in my putting: 'Laverack setters not allowed,' " she said to herself sorrowfully, and she ran off to tell her Mother of this latest tragedy.
"Yes, I know, Tattine dear," said Mrs. Gerald, in the