“Oh, yes!” cried little Phronsie, in which all the others joined with a whoop of delight; so a most wonderful story, drawn up in Ben's best style, followed till bedtime.
The first thing Polly did in the morning, was to run to the old cupboard, followed by all the others, to see if the cake was safe; and then it had to be drawn out, and dressed anew with the flowers, for they had decided to have it on the breakfast table.
“It looks better,” whispered Polly to Ben, “than it did yesterday; and aren't the flowers pretty?”
“It looks good enough to eat, anyway,” said Ben, smacking his lips.
“Well, we tried,” said Polly, stilling a sigh; “now, boys, call mamsie; everything's ready.”
Oh! how surprised their mother appeared when she was ushered out to the feast, and the full glory of the table burst upon her. Her delight in the cake was fully enough to satisfy the most exacting mind. She admired and admired it on every side, protesting that she shouldn't have supposed Polly could possibly have baked it as good in the old stove; and then she cut it, and gave a piece to every child, with a little posy on top. Wasn't it good, though! for like many other things, the cake proved better on trial than it looked, and so turned out to be really quite a good surprise all around.
“Why can't I ever have a birthday?” asked Joel, finishing the last crumb of his piece; “I should think I might,” he added, reflectively.
“Why, you have, Joe,” said Ben; “eight of 'em.”
“What a story!” ejaculated Joel; “when did I have 'em? I never had a cake; did I, Polly?”
“Not a cake-birthday, Joel,” said his mother; “you haven't got to that yet.”