"This is very bad business, indeed," he went on. "I fear I shall have to
take your leg off."
"Will it hurt?" asked Uncle Wiggily Longears.
"Um-er-well, not very much," said the doctor, as he twirled his glasses
on his tail.
Just then, who should come into the burrow but Mrs. Wren. She was very
much surprised to see Uncle Wiggily lying on a bed of soft grass, with
the doctor bending over him.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
"I have been shot," said Uncle Wiggily, "and the doctor cannot get the
bullets out."
"Suppose you let me try," said Mrs. Wren. "I have a very sharp bill, and
I think I can pull them out."
"Then you are a sort of a doctor," said Uncle Wiggily. "Go ahead, and
see what you can do."
"Yes, do," urged Dr. Possum.
So the little brown bird put her beak in the holes in Uncle Wiggily's
leg, where the bullets had gone in, and she pulled every one out. It
hurt a little, but Uncle Wiggily did not make a fuss.
"There," said Mrs. Wren, "that is done."
Then Dr. Possum put some salve on the leg and bound it up, promising to
come in next day to see how Uncle Wiggily was getting on.
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