CHAPTER VIII.
“Is this one of your own stories that you are going to tell us, Pigeon Pretty?” inquired the squirrel, when they were next assembled around the cottage door.
“No,” replied the wood-pigeon. “This is a story I heard a short time ago. I was flying home, after paying a visit to some cousins of mine who live in a village some miles away. As I passed by a pretty white cottage, something like this, I noticed that there were crumbs scattered on one of the window-sills. ‘Here lives somebody who is fond of birds!’ said I to myself, and as I was rather hungry, I stopped to pick up some of the crumbs. The window was open, and looking in, I saw a pretty and neatly furnished room. Near the window was a bed, in which lay a boy of about Toto’s age. He was evidently ill, for he had a bandage tied round his head, and he looked pale and thin. Beside the bed sat a little girl, apparently a year or two older; a sweet, pretty girl, as one would wish to see. She was reading aloud to her brother (I suppose he was her brother) from a large red book. Neither of the children noticed me, so I sat on the window-sill for some time, and heard the whole of this story, which you shall now hear in your turn. It is called