Doctor took me in and washed my poor paw. He made a salve for it out of a bit of everything, but, alack, in his little stock he had no extra thumb to give me.
Hardly had he comforted me and smilingly tucked me into a little bed, that outside—thud!thud!—someone was knocking.
All manner of little Rabbits stood at the door. They had come from far and near. They were all wounded, bleeding. Each bore a sad mark showing where the finger of Death had touched him.
The Doctor worked until midnight to wash and stitch and bandage their hurts. Sometimes he wept in sympathy, again he spoke words of cheer. Before day was fully light, the pains had all been eased and even my poor paw slept for a quiet minute.
