“I'm sure I don't know,” said Polly, getting down on her knees to examine the crack; “I shall have to stuff it with paper, I s'pose.”
“'Twon't stay in,” said Joel, scornfully; “don't you know you stuffed it before, last week?”
“I know,” said Polly, with a small sigh; and sitting down on the floor, she remained quite still for a minute, with her two black hands thrust out straight before her.
“Can't you fix it?” asked Davie, soberly, coming up; “then we can't have the cake.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Polly, springing up quickly; “don't be afraid; we're going to have that cake! There, you ugly old thing, you!” (this to the stove) “see what you've done!” as two big tears flew out of Phronsie's brown eyes at the direful prospect; and the sorrowful faces of the two boys looked up into Polly's own, for comfort. “I can fix it, I most know; do get some paper, Joe, as quick as you can.”
“Don't know where there is any,” said Joel, rummaging around; “it's all tore up; 'xcept the almanac; can't I take that?”
“Oh dear, no!” cried Polly; “put it right back, Joe; I guess there's some in the wood-shed.”
“There isn't either,” said little Davie, quickly; “Joel and I took it to make kites with.”
“Oh dear,” groaned Polly; “I don't know what we shall do; unless,” as a bright thought struck her, “you let me have the kites, boys.”
“Can't,” said Joel; “they're all flew away; and torn up.”