“Why, Phronsie,” said Polly, giving the log a push, “you can’t be.”
“Oh, but I am, Polly,” said Phronsie, shaking her head decidedly. “I know I am very hungry.”
“Well, wait just a bit, dear—oh, why won’t you stay where you ought to! (this to the log). You won’t act so when Ben comes, old log! Yes, Phronsie, in a minute!”
“Oh, let me get it, Polly,” said the little girl, eagerly. “Let me, do!”
“Do you think you can?” said Polly, resting a minute, her black hands stuck straight out before her as she sat on the floor.
“Oh, yes! just as nice,” said Phronsie; “it’s only some bread, Polly.”
Phronsie’s delight was to be thought big enough to help, to go to the bread-pail that hung under the little old steps that ran down into a small shed or provision room where the Pepper family always kept their slender stock of eatables. “Provision Room” was a good name for it, Polly had once said, because “there always ’s plenty of room for provisions, even if there are no provisions.” Polly knew there were some good bits from breakfast that Phronsie could easily get, so she said “yes” rather absently, and Phronsie trotted off.
As she passed the cupboard door, she spied the old bread-knife lying on the shelf. “Suppose,” thought Phronsie, “I should have to cut some bread—I know how—I do truly. I better take the knife, I think.” So she reached up, took the knife, and proceeded to go down the rickety steps. Now, why she should have stumbled this particular morning is more than anybody can tell. Yet, she certainly did; and the first thing Polly heard was a knock, then a rolling, then a sharp and loud cry. “Oh, what is the matter, Phronsie dear! I’m coming!”
Springing up, leaving the stove door wide open, she flew over the old steps, finding Phronsie in a little screaming heap at the bottom.
“Oh, darling baby! dear little Phron! don’t cry!” said Polly, gathering her up. “There, there.”