Joanne had wandered off a little way tracing the trailing green of a last growth of crowfoot. “Come along, Jo?” cried Hal. “We’re going.”
“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” she called back.
“Can’t wait.”
“But I’ve found something.”
Hal ran over to where she stood bending over some object upon the ground. “What is it?” he asked as he came up. “More crowfoot?”
“Not crowfoot, but crowfeet,” answered Joanne. “The feet belong to a poor little crow that has been hurt, in a trap, I suppose. He is rather hostile, but I’m trying to get him into a better frame of mind. I’m going to take him home; he will make a darling of a pet.”
“Perhaps he will and perhaps he will not,” returned Hal. “Let’s see him.”
Joanne moved away from the little barrier she had made around the object of her concern and Hal picked up the bird, which cocked a suspicious eye at him, but did not struggle much. “It is clear that his leg is broken,” declared Hal. “If we had some kind of bandage I could put a little splint on it and it would be all right till your grandfather sees it.”
Joanne drew forth a handkerchief and began tearing it into strips. “Who wouldn’t sacrifice an old handkerchief to such a cause?” she said.
“Cause? What cause?”