Bartleby was slow to recover. He kept himself in the shed for many days as Turkey would watch over him much like his mother that once watched him. He would smother Bartleby with soothing kisses as his Master would mumble out nonsense words in delirium. The wound had been infected, and despite Turkey’s gentle care, it could not be touched without the little fawn’s screams and raves to accompany it.
The crows would sit by their Master in place of Turkey during the nights. It is always a grim business to watch over such a broken soul. The once shrewd, pompous Bartleby now was nothing more than a quivering shell full of pain. Periodically, birds would sing right outside the shed, making the humiliation of the fawn even more unbearable.
“The little fyeul
Gout up in the day
Ignored wor warnings
Decided to stay.
‘Haddaway! Haddaway!
W’ cried and wailed
Fash as w’ were
W’ kept on wor tails
Smug little fawn!
Hide in your hyem!
Notting more than a hemmel
Fyeul! Fyeul! Fyuel!”
