“I’ll help you,” cried Phronsie, diverted from her lively interest over the white hen, and slipping off from the door-stone she ran into the kitchen. “Biddy—biddy—biddy,” only succeeding in getting dreadfully in the way, so that the hens squawked and flew about worse than ever.
“It’s a mercy that Grandma can’t hear them,” said Polly, pausing a minute to wipe her hot face. “Oh, you stupid things, can’t you see the open door? There, Phronsie, you stand over in that corner, that’s a good girl, and drive them this way. There, says I!”
But despite all this nice plan, the big clumsy creatures preferred to hop and dive under the table and chairs, and back of the wood-box, and any and everywhere but out of doors.
At last Polly sank down in a chair. “They won’t go out. O dear me, what shall I do!”
“Won’t they ever go out of Grandma Bascom’s kitchen?” asked Phronsie, deserting her corner to run over to Polly. “Say, Polly, won’t they ever?” as Joel with Davie at his heels whooped in.
“Oh, whickets!” exclaimed Joel, at sight of the hens. Then began such a lively chase that Polly had all she could do to restrain the boys and comfort Phronsie, while the little old kitchen rang with the noise. At last, out flew and plunged the hens over the flat door-stone and Joel screamed with delight, “There, sir, they’re all gone!” And Davie wiped his hot face and panted out, “Yes, they’re all gone!”
“No, they haven’t, Joel,” Polly exclaimed; “there’s one going into the bedroom. O dear me!”
“I’ll drive her out,” cried Joel, in huge delight and prancing across the little old kitchen.
“No, you mustn’t, Joe,” declared Polly, seizing his arm. “You’ll scare Grandma to death. Here, give me that broom.”
“You can’t do it as good as me,” grumbled Joel, while they all followed Polly, broom in hand, into the bedroom.