“I want to reward Frank in some way. I know he is fond of reading, for he told me so one day when he was doing errands for me. I have some books I’d like to give him.”
“That will please him,” said Mrs. Ward. “He likes books much better than a Woolly Dog.”
“Well, everything seems to be turning out for the best,” thought the Woolly Dog, as Mrs. Cressey took him home. “If I could get rid of that ticklish feeling inside me I’d be very happy. But then one mustn’t complain of small troubles. I’ve gotten over some big ones—the beehive and the snow bank.”
Donald was very glad to get his Woolly Dog back.
“Oh, look, Jane!” he cried when his mother gave him his lost birthday plaything. “My Woolly Dog has come home!”
“Where was he?” asked Jane.
Mrs. Cressey told where she had, by the merest accident, found the Woolly Dog, and Donald and his sister smoothed out his rumpled woolly coat, for he had been sadly mussed when the Rat dragged him along in the closet.
“Oh, Don, I know what we ought to do!” cried Jane.
“What?” asked her brother.
“We ought to have a little play party for your Woolly Dog,” went on Jane. “Always when somebody comes back after they been away they have a party.”