“How do you feel now?” Aunt Polly Woodchuck asked Solomon , when he had come back to her house after a week's absence.  
“No better!” he . “I still have pains. But they seem to have moved and all over me.”
 
“Good!” she exclaimed with a smile. “You are much better, though you didn't know it. The wishbone is broken. You broke it by flying against the trees. And you ought not to have any more trouble. But let me examine you!” she said, him in the waistcoat once more.
 
 
“This is odd!” she continued a bit later. “I can feel the wishbone more plainly than ever.”
 
“That's my own wishbone!” Solomon cried indignantly. “I've grown so thin through not eating that it's a wonder you can't feel my , too.”
 
Aunt Polly Woodchuck looked surprised.
 
“Perhaps you're right!” said she. “Not having a wishbone of my own, I forgot that you had one.”
 
A look of disgust came over Solomon Owl's face.
 
“You're a very poor doctor,” he told her. “Here you've kept me from eating for a whole week—and I don't believe it was necessary at all!”
 
“Well, you're better, aren't you?” she asked him.
 
 
“I shall be as soon as I have a good meal,” replied Solomon Owl, hopefully.
 
“You ought not to eat anything for another week,” Aunt Polly told him solemnly.
 
“Nonsense!” he cried.
 
“I'm a doctor; and I ought to know best,” she insisted.
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