When Whitefoot made the heedless jump that landed him in a pail half
filled with sap, no one else was in the little sugar-house. Whitefoot
was quite alone. You see, Farmer Brown and Farmer Brown's boy were out
collecting sap from the trees, and Bowser the Hound was with them.
Farmer Brown's boy was the first to return. He came in just after
Whitefoot had given up all hope. He went at once to the fire to put
more wood on. As he finished this job he heard the faintest of little
squeaks. It was a very pitiful little squeak. Farmer Brown's boy stood
perfectly still and listened. He heard it again. He knew right away that
it was the voice of Whitefoot.
“Hello!” exclaimed Farmer Brown's boy. “That sounds as if Whitefoot is
in trouble of some kind. I wonder where the little rascal is. I wonder
what can have happened to him. I must look into this.” Again Farmer
Brown's boy heard that faint little squeak. It was so faint that he
couldn't tell where it came from. Hurriedly and anxiously he looked all
over the little sugar-house, stopping every few seconds to listen
for that pitiful little squeak. It seemed to come from nowhere in
particular. Also it was growing fainter.
At last Farmer Brown's boy happened to stand still close to that tin
pail half filled with sap. He heard the faint little squeak again and
with it a little splash. It was the sound of the little splash that led
him to look down. In a flash he understood what had happened. He
saw poor little Whitefoot struggling feebly, and even as he looked
Whitefoot's head went under. He was very nearly drowned.
Stooping quickly, Farmer Brown's boy grabbed Whitefoot's long tail and
pulled him out. Whitefoot was so nearly drowned that he didn't have
strength enough to even kick. A great pity filled the eyes of Farmer
Brown's boy as he held Whitefoot's head down and gently shook him. He
was trying to shake some of the sap out of Whitefoot. It ran out of
Whitefoot's nose and out of his mouth. Whitefoot began to gasp. Then
Farmer Brown's boy spread his coat close by the fire, rolled Whitefoot
up in his handkerchief and gently placed him on the coat. For some time
Whitefoot lay just gasping. But presently his breath came easier, and
after a while he was breathing naturally. But he was too weak and tired
to move, so he just lay there while Farmer Brown's boy gently stroked
his head and told him how sorry he was.
Little by little Whitefoot recovered his strength. At last he could sit
up, and finally he began to move about a little, although he was still
wobbly on his legs. Farmer Brown's boy put some bits of food where
Whitefoot could get them, and as he ate, Whitefoot's beautiful soft eyes
were filled with gratitude.