The two men hurried up. It
turned upon them a pair of large, melting, velvet eyes--frightened,
indeed, but not with that hopeless, desperate terror that comes to the
eyes of the wild creatures when they are trapped.
"'Well, I'll be jiggered if that ain't old Blossom's calf that we made
sure the bear had carried off!' cried the farmer, striding up and
gently patting the calf's ribs. 'My, but you're poor!' he went on.
'They hain't used yer right out here in the woods, have they? I reckon
ye'll be a sight happier back home in the old barn.'"
Uncle Andy knocked the ashes out of his pipe and stuck it back in his
pocket.
"That's all!" said he, seeing that the Child still looked expectant.
"But," protested the Child, "I want to know--"
"Now, you know very well all the rest," said Uncle Andy. "What's the
use of my telling you how the calf was taken back to the settlement,
and got fat, and grew up to give rich milk like cream, as every good
Jersey should? You can think all that out for yourself, you know."
"But the moose cow," persisted the Child. "Didn't she feel _dreadful_?"
"Well," agreed Uncle Andy, "perhaps she did. But don't you go worrying
about that. She got over it.
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