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【英文原文2】
The major problem with trying to feed the raccoons was one of flow．Milk was flowing out of the bottle too fast and through the kits the same way．
“Thinner milk and less corn syrup，”the wildlife man suggested，adding that he would send along a brochure for raising them．“The object，”he coached，“is to take care of them until they can go back to the woods and take care of themselves．”
“I'll do anything I can to make that happen，”I assured him．“They're about eight ounces each”－－I had weighed them on my postage scale．“They'll be old enough to be on their own in a couple more weeks，right？”
“Not quite，”he said．“Come fall，if all goes well，they'll be ready．”I'll strangle them before then，I said under my breath．I prepared a new formula and tried it on one．The kit coughed and sputtered like a clogged carbureter．The hole in the nipple was too big．Maybe I could feed them better with a doll's bottle，I concluded，and set out to find one．At a toy store，I found some miniature bottles，one of which was attached to a specially plumbed doll named Betsy Wetsy．“My Betsys are wetsy enough，”I told the clerk－－declining doll and diapers，but taking the bottle．Back home，I tried feeding the raccoons again．Miracle of miracles，they sucked contentedly and fell asleep．（Only twelve more weeks to September，I counted down．）During the next month and a half I functioned faithfully as day－care nanny for Bonnie and Clyde，named for their bandit－like masks．The kits apparently considered me their mother．When I held them at feeding time，they still spoke in the same scratchy voice，but now it was a contented hum．The only time they may have perceived me to be an impostor came when they climbed on my shoulders，parted my hair and pawed in vain for a nipple．Before long the kits graduated to cereal and bananas．When they became more active，our backyard birdbath became an instant attraction．Bonnie，the extrovert of the two，ladled the water worshipfully with her paws like a priest conducting a baptism．Clyde followed suit，but cautiously，as if the water might be combustible．Next Bonnie discovered the joy of food and water together，and thereafter every morsel had to be dipped before being eaten．
By July the kits weighed about three pounds．I built a screened－in cage and moved them outdoors．When they had adjusted well to their new quarters，Daniel suggested we free them to explore the woods and forage for food．“I don't want them to get lost or hurt out there，”I said，sounding more like a mother hen than a surrogate father raccoon．“They should get used to being on their own，”Daniel insisted．We left their door ajar so they could wander during the day．At night，we called them home by banging together their food bowls．They came out of the woods at a gallop．Still，I was afraid we might be rushing their initiation to the wild．One windy afternoon while Daniel and I were playing catch in the backyard，I spotted Bonnie，twenty feet off the ground，precariously tightrope－walking the bouncing branches of a mulberry tree．She had eaten her fill of berries and was trying to get down，or so I thought．“Be careful，babe，”I called，running to the tree．“Quick，Dan，get a ladder．”“Let her go，”he said calmly．“She's on an adventure．Don' t spoil her fun．”And he was on the money．When I returned later，she was snoozing serenely in the mulberry' s cradling arms．However，the raccoons did get into trouble one night when they let themselves out of their cage with those dexterous forepaws．Shirley and I were awakened at ２A．M．by a horrendous scream．“What was that？”I asked，bolting upright．“The raccoons？”she wondered．“They' re in
