“I don't know,” dubiously replied Mrs. Pepper; “eggs are dreadful dear, and—”
“I don't care,” said Polly, recklessly; “I must just once for Dr. Fisher.”
“I tell you, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper, “what you might do; you might make him some little apple tarts—most every one likes them, you know.”
“Well,” said Polly, with a sigh, “I s'pose they'll have to do; but some time, mammy, I'm going to bake him a big cake, so there!”
A THREATENED BLOW
One day, a few weeks after, Mrs. Pepper and Polly were busy in the kitchen. Phronsie was out in the “orchard,” as the one scraggy apple-tree was called by courtesy, singing her rag doll to sleep under its sheltering branches. But “Baby” was cross and wouldn't go to sleep, and Phronsie was on the point of giving up, and returning to the house, when a strain of music made her pause with dolly in her apron. There she stood with her finger in her mouth, in utter astonishment, wondering where the sweet sounds came from.
“Oh, Phronsie!” screamed Polly, from the back door, “where are—oh, here, come quick! it's the beau-ti-fullest!”
“What is it?” eagerly asked the little one, hopping over the stubby grass, leaving poor, discarded “Baby” on its snubby nose where it dropped in her hurry.
“Oh, a monkey!” cried Polly; “do hurry! the sweetest little monkey you ever saw!”