trembling like a leaf.
"Mamma," she called upstairs, "I think I'll put BUN in the sun" (she was
trying not to be too down-hearted); "he seems to be a little chilly."
Then she sat herself down in the sun to watch him. Soon Bunny ceased
to tremble. "Patrick," she called to the old man who was using the lawn
mower, "is this little rabbit dead?"

"Yes, miss, shure," taking the little thing gently in his hand.

"Very well," she answered quietly. Tattine used those two little words
very often; they meant that she accepted the situation, if you happen to
know what that means. "Now I think I will not trouble Mamma about it,"
she said to herself thoughtfully, so she went to the closet under the
stairs, got a little empty box she knew was there, and, taking it out
of doors, she put the little rabbit in it, and then trudged down to the
tool-house for her spade and rake.

"Bunny is dead, Joey," she called to the gardener's little boy as she
came back. "Come help me bury him," and so Joey trotted behind her to
the spot already selected. "We must make this hole good and deep," she
explained (Joey stood looking on in wide-eyed wonder), "for if Doctor
and Betsy would kill a little live rabbit, there is no telling but they
would dig up a dead one." So the hole was made at least four inches
deep, Bunny was buried in it, and the earth, with Joey's assistance,
stamped down hard, but afterwards it was loosened somewhat to plant a
little wild-wood plant atop of the tiny grave. "Now, Joey, you wait here
till I go bring something for a tombstone," Tattine directed, and in a
second she was back again with the cover of a box in one hand and a red
crayon in the other. Sitting flat upon the grass, she printed on the
cover in rather irregular letters:--

BORN--I don't know when. DIED June 17th.
LAVERACK SETTERS NOT ALLOWED.

This she put securely into place, while Joey raked up a little about the
spot, and they left the little rabbit grave looking very neat and tidy.
The next morning Tattine ran out to see how the little wild-wood
plant was growing, and then she stood with her arms akimbo in blank
astonishment. The little grave had disappeared. She kicked aside the
loose earth, and saw that box and Bunny were both gone, and, not content
with that, they had partially chewed up the tombstone, which lay upon
its face a little distance away. They, of course, meant Betsy and
Doctor. "There was no use in my putting: 'Laverack setters not