“Oh, no; 'tisn't either, Joe;” said Polly, with a very flushed face, and her arms full of kindlings, glancing up at the old clock as she spoke; “tisn't but quarter of nine; there, take care, Phronsie! you can't lift off the cover; do help her, Davie.”
“No; let me!” cried Joel, springing forward; “it's my turn; Dave got the shingles; it's my turn, Polly.”
“So 'tis,” said Polly; “I forgot; there,” as she flung in the wood, and poked it all up in a nice little heap coaxingly. “It can't help but burn; what a cake we'll have for mamsie!”
“It'll be so big,” cried Phronsie, hopping around on one set of toes, “that mamsie won't know what to do, will she, Polly?”
“No, I don't believe she will,” said Polly, gayly, stuffing in more wood; “Oh, dear! there goes Ben's putty; it's all come out!”
“So it has,” said Joel, going around back of the stove to explore; and then he added cheerfully, “it's bigger'n ever; oh! it's an awful big hole, Polly!”
“Now, whatever shall we do!” said Polly, in great distress; “that hateful old crack! and Ben's clear off to Deacon Blodgett's!”
“I'll run and get him,” cried Joel, briskly; “I'll bring him right home in ten minutes.”
“Oh, no, you must not, Joe,” cried Polly in alarm; “it wouldn't ever be right to take him off from his work; mamsie wouldn't like it.”
“What will you do, then?” asked Joel, pausing on his way to the door.