About a week after the occurrences related in the last chapter, Mrs. Henry was sitting one morning at her window, at work. It was a large and beautiful window, opening out upon a piazza.

The window came down nearly to the floor, so that when it was open one could walk directly out. There was a sort of step, however, which it was necessary to go over.

Mrs. Henry had a little table at the window, and she was busy at her work. There was a basket on the floor by her side. Malleville was sitting upon the step. She had quite a number of green leaves in her lap, which she had gathered in the yard. She said that she was going to put them into a book and press them.

Just then she heard Phonny’s voice around a corner, calling to her.

“Malleville! Malleville!” said the voice, calling loudly.

Malleville hastily gathered up her leaves, and called out, “What, Phonny? I’m coming.”

Before she got ready to go, however, Phonny appeared upon the piazza.

“Malleville,” said he, “come and see our chickens.”

“Well,” said Malleville, “I will come.”

“And mother, I wish you would come out and see them, too,” said Phonny.

“I have seen them once,” said his mother, “only two or three days ago.”

“But, mother, they are a great deal larger now,” replied Phonny. “I wish you could come and see them. You don’t know how large they have grown.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Henry, “I will come.”

So she laid aside her work, and stepping out into the piazza, she followed Phonny and Malleville around the corner of the house. Phonny walked fast, with long strides, Malleville skipped along by his side, while Mrs. Henry came on after them at her leisure.

They all gathered round the coop, which had been made in a sunny corner of the yard. It was a very pretty coop indeed. It was formed by a box, turned bottom upward to form a shelter for the hen when she chose to retire to it, and a little yard with a paling around it made by bars, to prevent the chickens from straying away. Phonny said that there was a good, comfortable nest in under the box, and he was going to lift up the box and let Mrs. Henry see the nest, but Stuyvesant recommended to him not to do so, as it would frighten the hen.

There was an opening in the side of the box, which served as a door for the hen to go in and out at. At the time of Mrs. Henry’s visit, the hen was out in the yard walking about. She appeared to be a little anxious at seeing so unusual a company of visitors at her lodgings, and at first thought it probable that they might have come to take some of her chickens away. But when she found that they stood quietly by, and did not disturb her, she became quiet again, and began to scratch upon the ground to find something for the chickens to eat.

Seeing this, Phonny ran off to bring some food for them, and presently returned with a saucer full of what he called pudding. It consisted of meal and water stirred up together. He threw out some of this upon the ground within the yard, and the hen, calling the chickens to the place, scattered the pudding about with her bill for the chickens to eat.

The boys then wished to have Mrs. Henry go to the shop. She, accordingly, went with them. They opened the shop-door very carefully to keep Frink from getting out. When they were all safely in and the door was shut, they began to look about the room to find the squirrel. “There he is,” said Phonny, pointing to the beam over the shutter-window.

So saying he went to the place, and putting up his hand, took the squirrel and brought him to his mother.

“Why, how tame he is!” said Mrs. Henry.

“Yes,” said Phonny, “Stuyvesant and I tamed him. He runs all about the shop. And we have got a house for him to sleep in. Come and see his house.”

So saying, Phonny led his mother and Malleville to the back side of the shop, where, upon a shelf, there stood a small box, with a hole in the side of it, much like the one which had been made for the hen, only not so large.

“He goes in there to sleep,” said Phonny. “We always feed him in there too, so as to make him like the place.”

As Phonny said this, he put the squirrel down upon the beam before the door of his house.

“Now you will see him go in,” said he.

Frink crept into his hole, and then turning round within the box, he put his head out a little way, and after looking at Mrs. Henry a moment with one eye, he winked in a very cunning manner.

There was a small paper tacked up with little nails on the side of the squirrel’s house, near the door.

“What is this?” said Mrs. Henry.

“Oh! that’s his poetry,” said Phonny, “you must read it.”

So Mrs. Henry, standing up near, read aloud as follows:—

Mrs. Henry laughed heartily at this production. She asked who wrote it.

“Why, we found it here one morning,” said Phonny. “Stuyvesant says that he thinks Beechnut wrote it.”

“But Beechnut,” added Malleville, “says that he believes that Frink wrote it himself.”

“Oh no,” said Stuyvesant, “he did not say exactly that.”

“What did he say?” asked Mrs. Henry.

“Why, he said,” replied Stuyvesant, “that as there was a pen and ink in the shop, and hammer and nails, and as the paper was found nailed up early one morning, when nobody had slept in the shop the night before but Frink, if it did not turn out that Frink himself wrote the lines, he should never believe in any squirrel’s writing poetry as long as he lived.”

Mrs. Henry laughed at this, and she then began to look about the shop to see the tools and the arrangements which had been made by the boys for their work.

She found the premises in excellent order. The floor was neat, the tools were all in their proper places, and every thing seemed well arranged.

“I suppose the tools are dull, however,” said Mrs. Henry, “as boys’ tools generally are.”

“No,” said Phonny, “they are all sharp. We have sharpened them every one.”

“How did you do it?” asked Mrs. Henry.

“Why, we turned the grindstone for Beechnut while he ground his axes, and then he held our tools for us to sharpen them. We could not hold them ourselves very well.”

“We are going to keep them sharp,” continued Phonny,—“as sharp as razors. Won’t we, Stivy?”

“We are going to try it,” said Stuyvesant.

Phonny took up the plane to show his mother how sharp it was.

“Yes,” said she; “I like that tool too, very much—it is so safe.”

The plane is a very safe tool, indeed, for the cutting part, which consists of a plate of iron, faced with steel for an edge, is almost embedded in the wood. It is made in fact on purpose to take off a thin shaving only, from a board, and it would be impossible to make a deep cut into any thing with it.

Phonny then showed his mother his chisels. He had four chisels of different sizes. They were very sharp.

“It seems to me that a chisel is not so safe a tool as a plane,” said Mrs. Henry.

“Why not, mother?” asked Phonny.

“Why you might be holding a piece of wood with your fingers, and then in trying to cut it with the chisel, the chisel might slip and cut your fingers.”

“Oh no, mother,” said Phonny, “there is no danger.”

Boys always say there is no danger.

Phonny next showed his gimlets, and his augers, and his bits and bit-stocks. A bit is a kind of borer which is turned round and round by means of a machine called a bit-stock.

Phonny took the bit-stock and a bit and was going to bore a hole in the side of the bench, by way of showing his mother how the tool was used.

“Stop,” said Stuyvesant, “I would not bore into the work bench. I will get a piece of board.”

So he pulled out a small piece of board from under the work bench and Phonny bored into that.

Mrs. Henry next came to the chopping block. The hatchet was lying upon the block.

“I am rather sorry to see that you have got a hatchet,” said Mrs. Henry.

“Why, mother?” asked Phonny.

“Because I think it is a dangerous tool. I think it is a very dangerous tool indeed.”

“Oh no, mother,” said Phonny, “there is no danger.”

“You might be holding a piece of wood in your hand,” said Mrs. Henry, “and then in trying to chop it with your hatchet, hit your hand instead of the wood. There is great danger when you strike a blow with a sharp instrument.”

“Oh no, mother,” said Phonny. “There is not any danger. I have had my hatchet a long time and I never have cut myself but once.”

“That shows that there is some danger,” said his mother. “Besides I knew a boy who was cutting with a hatchet, and it came down through the board that he was cutting, and struck the boy himself, in the knee, and wounded him very badly.”

“But I shall be very careful,” said Phonny. “I know I shall not cut myself with it.”

“I wish,” said his mother, “that you would let me have the hatchet to carry in the house and keep it till you grow older.”

“Oh no, mother,” said Phonny, “we could not get along at all without the hatchet, unless we had an axe, and that would be more dangerous still. But we will be very careful with it.”

Mrs. Henry did not appear satisfied with these promises, but she did not urge Phonny any longer to give the hatchet to her. She walked along, seeming, however, not at all at her ease. Phonny showed her his stock of boards and blocks, among which last, was one which he said was to be made into a boat. After looking around at all these things, Mrs. Henry and Malleville went away. Phonny and Stuyvesant remained in the shop.

“I would let her have the hatchet,” said Stuyvesant.

“I don’t think there is any danger,” said Phonny.

“Nor I,” said Stuyvesant.

“Then why would not you keep the hatchet here?” asked Phonny.

“Because, Aunt Henry does not feel easy about it,” said Stuyvesant. “It is not right for us to make her feel uncomfortable.”

“But then what shall we do when we want to sharpen stakes?” asked Phonny.

“I don’t know,” said Stuyvesant,—thinking. “Perhaps we might burn them sharp in the kitchen fire.”

“Hoh!” said Phonny, “that would not do at all.”

“It would be better than to make Aunt Henry feel anxious,” said Stuyvesant.

“But I don’t think she feels anxious,” said Phonny. “She will forget all about it pretty soon. However, if you think it is best, I will carry my hatchet in and give it to her. We can get along very well with the draw shave.”

“Well,” said Stuyvesant, “I do think it is best; and now I am going to finish mending the wheel-barrow.”

“Well,” said Phonny, “and I will go and carry the hatchet in to my mother.”

Phonny accordingly took the hatchet and went sauntering slowly along out of the shop.

In a few minutes, Stuyvesant heard an outcry in the yard. It sounded like a cry of pain and terror, from Phonny. Stuyvesant threw down his work, and ran out to see what was the matter.

He found Phonny by the woodpile, where he had stopped a moment to chop a stick with his hatchet, and had cut himself. He was down upon the ground, clasping his foot with his hands, and crying out as if in great pain.

“Oh, Stuyvesant,” said he. “I have cut my foot. Oh, I have cut my foot, most dreadfully.”

“Let me see,” said Stuyvesant, and he came to the place. Phonny raised his hands a little, from his foot, so as to let Stuyvesant see, but continued crying, with pain and terror.

“Oh dear me!” said he. “What shall I do?—Oh dear me!”

Stuyvesant looked. All that he could see, however, was a gaping wound in Phonny’s boot, just over the ankle, and something bloody beneath.

“I don’t think it is cut much,” said Stuyvesant. “Let us go right into the house.”

Phonny rose, and leaning upon Stuyvesant’s shoulder, he began to hobble along toward the house, uttering continued cries and lamentations by the way.

“I would not cry,” said Stuyvesant. “I would bear it like a hero.”

In obedience to this counsel, Phonny abated somewhat the noise that he was making, though he still continued his exclamations and moanings. Dorothy came to the door to find out what was the matter.

Dorothy was not much alarmed. In fact the more noise a child made when hurt, the less concerned Dorothy always was about it. She knew that when people were dangerously wounded, they were generally still.

“What’s the matter?” said Dorothy.

“He has cut his foot,” said Stuyvesant.

“Let me see,” said she. So she looked down at Phonny’s ankle.

“I guess he has cut his boot more than his foot,” said she. “Let’s pull off his boot.”

“Oh dear me!” said Phonny. “Oh, go and call my mother. Oh dear me!”

Dorothy began to pull off Phonny’s boot, while Stuyvesant went to call Phonny’s mother. Mrs. Henry was very much alarmed, when she heard that Phonny had cut himself. She hurried out to him, and seemed to be in great distress and anxiety. She kneeled down before him, while Dorothy held him in her lap, and examined the foot. The cut was a pretty bad one, just above the ankle.

“It is a very bad place for a cut,” said she. “Bring me some water.”

“I’ll get some,” said Stuyvesant.

So Stuyvesant went and got a bowl from a shelf in the kitchen, and poured some water into it, and brought it to Mrs. Henry. Mrs. Henry bathed the wound with the water, and then closing it up as completely as possible, and putting a piece of sticking-plaster across to keep the parts in place, she bound the ankle up with a bandage.

By this time Phonny had become quiet. His mother, when she had finished bandaging the ankle, brought another stocking and put it on, to keep the bandage in its place.

“There!” said she, “that will do. Now the first thing is to get him into the other room.”

So Dorothy carried Phonny in, and laid him down upon the sofa in the great sitting-room.

That evening when Beechnut went to the village to get the letters at the post-office, he stopped at the doctor’s on his way, to ask the doctor to call that evening or in the morning at Mrs. Henry’s. The doctor came that evening.

“Ah, Phonny,” said he, when he came into the room, and saw Phonny lying upon the sofa, “and what is the matter with you?”

“I have cut my foot,” said Phonny.

“Cut your foot!” rejoined the doctor, “could not you find any thing else to cut than your foot?”

Phonny laughed.

“I hope you have cut it in the right place,” continued the doctor. “In cutting your foot every thing depends upon cutting it in the right place.”

While the doctor was saying this, Mrs. Henry had drawn off Phonny’s stocking, and was beginning to unpin the bandage.

“Stop a moment, madam,” said the doctor. “That bandage is put on very nicely; it seems hardly worth while to disturb it. You can show me now precisely where the wound was.”

Mrs. Henry then pointed to the place upon the bandage, underneath which the cut lay, and she showed also the direction and length of the cut.

“Exactly,” said the doctor. “You could not have cut your ankle, Phonny, in a better place. A half an inch more, one side or the other, might have made you a cripple for life. You hit the right place exactly. It is a great thing for a boy who has a hatchet for a plaything, to know how to cut himself in the right place.”

The doctor then said that he would not disturb the bandage, as he had no doubt that the wound would do very well under the treatment which Mrs. Henry herself had administered. He said that in a few days he thought it would be nearly well.

It might be prudent, however, he added, not to walk upon that foot in the mean time. There might be some small possibility in that case, of getting the wound irritated, so as to bring on an inflammation, and that might lead to serious consequences.

The doctor then bade Phonny good-bye, telling him that he hoped he would be as patient and good-natured in bearing his confinement, as he had been dextrous in the mode of inflicting the wound. And so he went away.