Then she went to the garden and pulled a leaf or two of the youngest, greenest
lettuce, and put it right within reach of Bunny's nose, and a little saucer of
water beside it. Then she went down to tell the gardener's little boy all
about the sorrowful thing that had happened.

The next morning Bunny was still breathing, but the lettuce was un-nibbled; he
had not moved an inch, and he was trembling like a leaf. "Mamma," she called
upstairs, "I think I'll put BUN in the sun" (she was trying not to be too
down-hearted); "he seems to be a little chilly." Then she sat herself down in
the sun to watch him. Soon Bunny ceased to tremble. "Patrick," she called to
the old man who was using the lawn mower, "is this little rabbit dead?"

"Yes, miss, shure," taking the little thing gently in his hand.

"Very well," she answered quietly. Tattine used those two little words very
often; they meant that she accepted the situation, if you happen to know what
that means. "Now I think I will not trouble Mamma about it," she said to
herself thoughtfully, so she went to the closet under the stairs, got a little
empty box she knew was there, and, taking it out of doors, she put the little
rabbit in it, and then trudged down to the tool-house for her spade and rake.

"Bunny is dead, Joey," she called to the gardener's little boy as she came
back. "Come help me bury him," and so Joey trotted behind her to the spot
already selected. "We must make this hole good and deep," she explained (Joey
stood looking on in wide-eyed wonder), "for if Doctor and Betsy would kill a
little live rabbit, there is no telling but they would dig up a dead one." So
the hole was made at least four inches deep, Bunny was buried in it, and the
earth, with Joey's assistance, stamped down hard, but afterwards it was
loosened somewhat to plant a little wild-wood plant atop of the tiny grave.
"Now, Joey, you wait here till I go bring something for a tombstone," Tattine