THE ACCIDENT.
About a week after the occurrences related in the last chapter, Mrs.
Henry was sitting one morning at her window, at work. It was a large
and beautiful window, opening out upon a piazza.
The window came down nearly to the floor, so that when it was open one
could walk directly out. There was a sort of step, however, which it
was necessary to go over.
Mrs. Henry had a little table at the window, and she was busy at her
work. There was a basket on the floor by her side. Malleville was
sitting upon the step. She had quite a number of green leaves in her
lap, which she had gathered in the yard. She said that she was going
to put them into a book and press them.
Just then she heard Phonny's voice around a corner, calling to her.
"Malleville! Malleville!" said the voice, calling loudly.
Malleville hastily gathered up her leaves, and called out, "What,
Phonny? I'm coming."
Before she got ready to go, however, Phonny appeared upon the piazza.
"Malleville," said he, "come and see our chickens."
"Well," said Malleville, "I will come."
"And mother, I wish you would come out and see them, too," said
Phonny.
"I have seen them once," said his mother, "only two or three days
ago."
"But, mother, they are a great deal larger now," replied Phonny. "I
wish you _could_ come and see them. You don't know how large they have
grown."
"Very well," said Mrs. Henry, "I will come."
So she laid aside her work, and stepping out into the piazza, she
followed Phonny and Malleville around the corner of the house. Phonny
walked fast, with long strides, Malleville skipped along by his side,
while Mrs. Henry came on after them at her leisure.
They all gathered round the coop, which had been made in a sunny
corner of the yard. It was a very pretty coop indeed. It was formed
by a box, turned bottom upward to form a shelter for the hen when she
chose to retire to it, and a little yard with a paling around it made
by bars, to prevent the chickens from straying away. Phonny said that
there was a good, comfortable nest in under the box, and he was going
to lift up the box and let Mrs. Henry see the nest, but Stuyvesant
recommended to him not to do so, as it would frighten the hen.
There was an opening in the side of the box, which served as a door
for the hen to go in and out at. At the time of Mrs. Henry's visit,
the hen was out in the yard walking about. She appeared to be a little
anxious at seeing so unusual a company of visitors at her lodgings,
and at first thought it probable that they might have come to take
some of her chickens away. But when she found that they stood quietly
by, and did not disturb her, she became quiet again, and began to
scratch upon the ground to find something for the chickens to eat.
Seeing this, Phonny ran off to bring some food for them, and presently
returned with a saucer full of what he called pudding. It consisted
of meal and water stirred up together. He threw out some of this upon
the ground within the yard, and the hen, calling the chickens to the
place, scattered the pudding about with her bill for the chickens to
eat.
The boys then wished to have Mrs. Henry go to the shop. She,
accordingly, went with them. They opened the shop-door very carefully
to keep Frink from getting out. When they were all safely in and the
door was shut, they began to look about the room to find the squirrel.
"There he is," said Phonny, pointing to the beam over the
shutter-window.
So saying he went to the place, and putting up his hand, took the
squirrel and brought him to his mother.
"Why, how tame he is!" said Mrs. Henry.
"Yes," said Phonny, "Stuyvesant and I tamed him. He runs all about the
shop. And we have got a house for him to sleep in. Come and see his
house."
So saying, Phonny led his mother and Malleville to the back side of
the shop, where, upon a shelf, there stood a small box, with a hole in
the side of it, much like the one which had been made for the hen,
only not so large.
"He goes in there to sleep," said Phonny. "We always feed him in
there too, so as to make him like the place."
As Phonny said this, he put the squirrel down upon the beam before the
door of his house.
"Now you will see him go in," said he.
Frink crept into his hole, and then turning round within the box, he
put his head out a little way, and after looking at Mrs. Henry a
moment with one eye, he winked in a very cunning manner.
There was a small paper tacked up with little nails on the side of the
squirrel's house, near the door.
"What is this?" said Mrs. Henry.
"Oh! that's his poetry," said Phonny, "you must read it."
So Mrs. Henry, standing up near, read aloud as follows:--
My name is Frink,
And unless you think,
To give me plenty to eat and drink,
You'll find me running away
Some day;
I shall tip you a wink,
Then slyly slink,
Out through some secret cranny or chink,
And hie for the woods, away,
Away.
Mrs. Henry laughed heartily at this production. She asked who wrote
it.
"Why, we found it here one morning," said Phonny. "Stuyvesant says
that he thinks Beechnut wrote it."
"But Beechnut," added Malleville, "says that he believes that Frink
wrote it himself."
"Oh no," said Stuyvesant, "he did not say exactly that."
"What did he say?" asked Mrs. Henry.
"Why, he said," replied Stuyvesant, "that as there was a pen and ink
in the shop, and hammer and nails, and as the paper was found nailed
up early one morning, when nobody had slept in the shop the night
before but Frink, if it did not turn out that Frink himself wrote the
lines, he should never believe in any squirrel's writing poetry as
long as he lived."
Mrs. Henry laughed at this, and she then began to look about the shop
to see the tools and the arrangements which had been made by the boys
for their work.
She found the premises in excellent order. The floor was neat, the
tools were all in their proper places, and every thing seemed well
arranged.
"I suppose the tools are dull, however," said Mrs. Henry, "as boys'
tools generally are."
"No," said Phonny, "they are all sharp. We have sharpened them every
one."
"How did you do it?" asked Mrs. Henry.
"Why, we turned the grindstone for Beechnut while he ground his axes,
and then he held our tools for us to sharpen them. We could not hold
them ourselves very well."
"We are going to keep them sharp," continued Phonny,--"as sharp as
razors. Won't we, Stivy?"
"We are going to try it," said Stuyvesant.
Phonny took up the plane to show his mother how sharp it was.
"Yes," said she; "I like that tool too, very much--it is so safe."
The plane is a very safe tool, indeed, for the cutting part, which
consists of a plate of iron, faced with steel for an edge, is almost
embedded in the wood. It is made in fact on purpose to take off a
_thin shaving_ only, from a board, and it would be impossible to make
a deep cut into any thing with it.
Phonny then showed his mother his chisels. He had four chisels of
different sizes. They were very sharp.
"It seems to me that a chisel is not so safe a tool as a plane," said
Mrs. Henry.
"Why not, mother?" asked Phonny.
"Why you might be holding a piece of wood with your fingers, and then
in trying to cut it with the chisel, the chisel might slip and cut
your fingers."
"Oh no, mother," said Phonny, "there is no danger."
Boys always say there is no danger.
Phonny next showed his gimlets, and his augers, and his bits and
bit-stocks. A bit is a kind of borer which is turned round and round
by means of a machine called a bit-stock.
Phonny took the bit-stock and a bit and was going to bore a hole in
the side of the bench, by way of showing his mother how the tool was
used.
"Stop," said Stuyvesant, "I would not bore into the work bench. I will
get a piece of board."
So he pulled out a small piece of board from under the work bench and
Phonny bored into that.
Mrs. Henry next came to the chopping block. The hatchet was lying upon
the block.
"I am rather sorry to see that you have got a hatchet," said Mrs.
Henry.
"Why, mother?" asked Phonny.
"Because I think it is a dangerous tool. I think it is a very
dangerous tool indeed."
"Oh no, mother," said Phonny, "there is no danger."
"You might be holding a piece of wood in your hand," said Mrs. Henry,
"and then in trying to chop it with your hatchet, hit your hand
instead of the wood. There is great danger when you strike a blow with
a sharp instrument."
"Oh no, mother," said Phonny. "There is not any danger. I have had my
hatchet a long time and I never have cut myself but once."
"That shows that there is some danger," said his mother. "Besides I
knew a boy who was cutting with a hatchet, and it came down through
the board that he was cutting, and struck the boy himself, in the
knee, and wounded him very badly."
"But I shall be very careful," said Phonny. "I _know_ I shall not cut
myself with it."
"I wish," said his mother, "that you would let me have the hatchet to
carry in the house and keep it till you grow older."
"Oh no, mother," said Phonny, "we could not get along at all without
the hatchet, unless we had an axe, and that would be more dangerous
still. But we will be very careful with it."
Mrs. Henry did not appear satisfied with these promises, but she did
not urge Phonny any longer to give the hatchet to her. She walked
along, seeming, however, not at all at her ease. Phonny showed her his
stock of boards and blocks, among which last, was one which he said
was to be made into a boat. After looking around at all these things,
Mrs. Henry and Malleville went away. Phonny and Stuyvesant remained in
the shop.
"I would let her have the hatchet," said Stuyvesant.
"I don't think there is any danger," said Phonny.
"Nor I," said Stuyvesant.
"Then why would not you keep the hatchet here?" asked Phonny.
"Because, Aunt Henry does not feel easy about it," said Stuyvesant.
"It is not right for us to make her feel uncomfortable."
"But then what shall we do when we want to sharpen stakes?" asked
Phonny.
"I don't know," said Stuyvesant,--thinking. "Perhaps we might burn
them sharp in the kitchen fire."
"Hoh!" said Phonny, "that would not do at all."
"It would be better than to make Aunt Henry feel anxious," said
Stuyvesant.
"But I don't think she feels anxious," said Phonny. "She will forget
all about it pretty soon. However, if you think it is best, I will
carry my hatchet in and give it to her. We can get along very well
with the draw shave."
"Well," said Stuyvesant, "I do think it is best; and now I am going to
finish mending the wheel-barrow."
"Well," said Phonny, "and I will go and carry the hatchet in to my
mother."
Phonny accordingly took the hatchet and went sauntering slowly along
out of the shop.
In a few minutes, Stuyvesant heard an outcry in the yard. It sounded
like a cry of pain and terror, from Phonny. Stuyvesant threw down his
work, and ran out to see what was the matter.
He found Phonny by the woodpile, where he had stopped a moment to
chop a stick with his hatchet, and had cut himself. He was down upon
the ground, clasping his foot with his hands, and crying out as if in
great pain.
"Oh, Stuyvesant," said he. "I have cut my foot. Oh, I have cut my
foot, most dreadfully."
"Let me see," said Stuyvesant, and he came to the place. Phonny raised
his hands a little, from his foot, so as to let Stuyvesant see, but
continued crying, with pain and terror.
"Oh dear me!" said he. "What shall I do?--Oh dear me!"
Stuyvesant looked. All that he could see, however, was a gaping wound
in Phonny's boot, just over the ankle, and something bloody beneath.
"I don't think it is cut much," said Stuyvesant. "Let us go right into
the house."
Phonny rose, and leaning upon Stuyvesant's shoulder, he began to
hobble along toward the house, uttering continued cries and
lamentations by the way.
"I would not cry," said Stuyvesant. "I would bear it like a hero."
In obedience to this counsel, Phonny abated somewhat the noise that he
was making, though he still continued his exclamations and moanings.
Dorothy came to the door to find out what was the matter.
Dorothy was not much alarmed. In fact the more noise a child made when
hurt, the less concerned Dorothy always was about it. She knew that
when people were dangerously wounded, they were generally still.
"What's the matter?" said Dorothy.
"He has cut his foot," said Stuyvesant.
"Let me see," said she. So she looked down at Phonny's ankle.
"I guess he has cut his boot more than his foot," said she. "Let's
pull off his boot."
"Oh dear me!" said Phonny. "Oh, go and call my mother. Oh dear me!"
Dorothy began to pull off Phonny's boot, while Stuyvesant went to call
Phonny's mother. Mrs. Henry was very much alarmed, when she heard that
Phonny had cut himself. She hurried out to him, and seemed to be in
great distress and anxiety. She kneeled down before him, while Dorothy
held him in her lap, and examined the foot. The cut was a pretty bad
one, just above the ankle.
"It is a very bad place for a cut," said she. "Bring me some water."
"I'll get some," said Stuyvesant.
So Stuyvesant went and got a bowl from a shelf in the kitchen, and
poured some water into it, and brought it to Mrs. Henry. Mrs. Henry
bathed the wound with the water, and then closing it up as completely
as possible, and putting a piece of sticking-plaster across to keep
the parts in place, she bound the ankle up with a bandage.
By this time Phonny had become quiet. His mother, when she had
finished bandaging the ankle, brought another stocking and put it on,
to keep the bandage in its place.
"There!" said she, "that will do. Now the first thing is to get him
into the other room."
So Dorothy carried Phonny in, and laid him down upon the sofa in the
great sitting-room.
That evening when Beechnut went to the village to get the letters at
the post-office, he stopped at the doctor's on his way, to ask the
doctor to call that evening or in the morning at Mrs. Henry's. The
doctor came that evening.
"Ah, Phonny," said he, when he came into the room, and saw Phonny
lying upon the sofa, "and what is the matter with you?"
"I have cut my foot," said Phonny.
"Cut your foot!" rejoined the doctor, "could not you find any thing
else to cut than your foot?"
Phonny laughed.
"I hope you have cut it in the right place," continued the doctor. "In
cutting your foot every thing depends upon cutting it in the right
place."
While the doctor was saying this, Mrs. Henry had drawn off Phonny's
stocking, and was beginning to unpin the bandage.
"Stop a moment, madam," said the doctor. "That bandage is put on very
nicely; it seems hardly worth while to disturb it. You can show me now
precisely where the wound was."
Mrs. Henry then pointed to the place upon the bandage, underneath
which the cut lay, and she showed also the direction and length of the
cut.
"Exactly," said the doctor. "You could not have cut your ankle,
Phonny, in a better place. A half an inch more, one side or the other,
might have made you a cripple for life. You hit the right place
exactly. It is a great thing for a boy who has a hatchet for a
plaything, to know how to cut himself in the right place."
[Illustration: THE DOCTOR'S VISIT.]
The doctor then said that he would not disturb the bandage, as he had
no doubt that the wound would do very well under the treatment which
Mrs. Henry herself had administered. He said that in a few days he
thought it would be nearly well.
It might be prudent, however, he added, not to walk upon that foot in
the mean time. There might be some small possibility in that case, of
getting the wound irritated, so as to bring on an inflammation, and
that might lead to serious consequences.
The doctor then bade Phonny good-bye, telling him that he hoped he
would be as patient and good-natured in bearing his confinement, as he
had been dextrous in the mode of inflicting the wound. And so he went
away.