She got to her feet reluctantly.
“Yes-m, I’m coming!” she yelled in a shrill treble. “You come, too, girls,” she added in a lower tone. “Maybe she won’t make me stay if I have company.”
“All right—let’s tell her about Alice.” Katy jumped up quickly.
Gertie Halford followed suit.
The two small sisters were as like as possible in dress and as unlike in disposition. They were always immaculately starched and neat with their thick brown hair parted in front and braided into smooth tight braids ending in bows the exact shade of their dresses. These bows were a constant source of envy to Jane Morton, because they never seemed to drop off or hang by three hairs as her own invariably did.
Gertie Halford was a gentle little mouse of a girl with soft hazel eyes, who loved pretty things and hated anything rough or boisterous. Her sister Katy’s gray eyes, on the contrary, were shrewd and keen, as was their small owner, who could be relied upon to take care of herself and have her own way on all occasions. The sisters were nine and eleven respectively, and Chicken Little not quite ten.
Jane Morton or Chicken Little Jane, as she had been nicknamed while a toddler, because she was always teasing for the story of “Chicken Little,” was usually described as all eyes. Her slim, active legs, however, were also a very important part of her anatomy. But her eyes easily held the center of the stage—big and brown and wondering, they had a way of looking at you as if you were the only person about. Her straight brown hair was swept back from her face by a round rubber comb and tied atop her head with a ribbon for further security. Despite these precautions, it usually looked as if it needed brushing. Her clothes, too, were prone to accidents because of her habit of roosting on picket fences or tree branches. Today, however, she was almost as spick and span as Katy and Gertie. She had just been through the painful process of cleaning up after dinner.
The children burst into Mrs. Morton’s bedroom without the ceremony of knocking, too intent upon the news they had to tell, to inquire what Mrs. Morton wanted.
“Say, Mother,” Chicken Little began jerkily with what breath was left from running upstairs, “Alice says she used to live in this house when she was a little girl!”
Mrs. Morton paused in adjusting the folds of black lace around her plump shoulders and stared at her small daughter in astonishment.