with his eyes tightly closed because of the terror in his heart, the little bob white was being carried by fanner brown's boy. very tender was the way in which he was handled, and after a while he began to take a little comfort in the warmth of the hand which held him. once in a while farmer brown's boy would gently smooth the feathers of the little head and say, “poor little chap.”

straight home went farmer brown's boy. very, very gently he bathed the wounds of the little bob white. then, as gently as he could, he put the broken bones of the wing back in place and bound them there with little strips of thin wood to keep them from slipping. it hurt dreadfully, and the little bob white didn't know what it all meant. but he had suffered so much already that a little more suffering didn't matter much, and he didn't so much as peep.

when it was all over he was put into a box with a bed of soft clean hay, a little dish of water which he could reach by just stretching out his head, and a handful of wheat, and then he was left alone. he was too sick and weary to want to do anything but squat down in that bed of hay and rest. he was still afraid of what might happen to him, but it was not such a great fear as before, for there had been something comforting in the gentle touch of farmer brown's boy. he didn't understand at all what those strange wrappings about his body meant, but a lot of the ache and pain had gone from the broken wing.

so he drank gratefully of the water, for he had been burning with thirst, and then settled himself as comfortably as possible and in no time at all was asleep. yes, sir, he was asleep! you see, he was so worn out with fright and pain that he couldn't keep his eyes open. ever so many times during the day farmer brown's boy came to see how he was getting along, and was so very gentle and whistled to him so softly that his little heart no longer went pita-pat with fear.

the next morning the little bob white felt so much better that he was up bright and early and made a good breakfast of the wheat left for him. but it seemed very queer not to be able to move his wings. he couldn't lift them even the teeniest, weeniest bit because, you see, farmer brown's boy had bound them to his sides with strips of cloth so that he couldn't even try to fly. this was so that that broken wing might get well and strong again.

now of course the little bob white had lived out of doors all his life, and farmer brown's boy knew that he never could be quite happy in the house. so he made a wire pen in the henyard, and in one end he made the nicest little shelter of pine-boughs under which the little bob white could hide. he put a little dish of clean water in the pen and scattered wheat on the ground, and then he put the little bob white in there.

as soon as he was left quite alone the little bob white ran all about to see what his new home was like. you see, there was nothing the matter with his legs.

“i can't get out,” thought he, when he had been all around the pen, “but neither can any one get in, so i am safe and that is something to be thankful for. this two-legged creature is not at all like the one with the terrible fire-stick, and i am beginning to like him. i haven't got to fear reddy fox or old man coyote or redtail the hawk. i guess that really i am a lot better off than if i were out on the green meadows unable to fly. perhaps, when my wing gets well, i will be allowed to go. i wonder where my father and mother and brothers and sisters are and if any of them were hurt by that terrible fire-stick.”