This was a wise decision, but it wasn't a cure. Something he had eaten clearly disagreed with him. Instead of growing better he felt worse the longer he rested. In time he was feeling so sick and giddy that if Mr. Fox had appeared he would have made short work of Bumper. His groans soon attracted the birds, and they flew to where he was lying and asked him the trouble.
"I'm dying, I think," moaned Bumper. "I must have eaten some poisonous plant, and I know I'm dying."
The birds were startled by this information, and they held an immediate consultation.
"It's perhaps true what he says," remarked Mrs. Ph[oe]be Bird. "He's eaten some poisonous plant."
"If we only knew what it was," added the Pine Grosbeak, "we might help him. There's an antidote for every poison."
"Yes," assented the Purple Finch, "but not knowing the kind of poison, we can't prescribe the antidote."
"Why not," suggested the Crested Flycatcher, "give him all the antidotes, and then we're sure to give him the right one."
Rusty the Blackbird laughed out loud at this suggestion. "Why," he said, "we'd stuff him so full of antidotes that he'd die anyhow. No, I think we'd better see Mr. Crane."
"What could he do? He's no kind of a doctor," indignantly remarked Mrs. Ph[oe]be Bird. "The idea of calling him in!"
Rusty, who was a jolly, rollicking bird, winked, and added: "No, he isn't much of a doctor, it's true, but he's got one medicine that nearly always works. I'll go fetch him."