"We couldn't pull enough o' that frostbit ole grass in the yard
to feed him," Penrod said gloomily. "We could work a week and not
get enough to make him swaller more'n about twice. All we got
this morning, he blew most of it away. He'd try to scoop it in
toward his teeth with his lip, and then he'd haf to kind of blow
out his breath, and after that all the grass that'd be left was
just some wet pieces stickin' to the outsides of his face. Well,
and you know how he acted about that maple branch. We can't trust
him with branches."
Sam jumped up.
"_I_ know!" he cried. "There's lots of leaves left on the
branches. We can give them to him."
"I just said--"
"I don't mean the branches," Sam explained. "We'll leave the
branches on the trees, but just pull the leaves off the branches
and put 'em in the bucket and feed 'em to him out of the bucket."
Penrod thought this plan worth trying, and for three-quarters of
an hour the two boys were busy with the lower branches of various
trees in the yard. Thus they managed to supply Whitey with a fair
quantity of wet leaves, which he ate in a perfunctory way,
displaying little of his earlier enthusiasm.
Pages:
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137