“Oh, you pretty creeters, you,” cried Grandma, raising her head in its big ruffled cap, from the high pillow of the four-poster and beaming at the whole bunch. “So you’ve come to see Grandma, haven’t you?”
“There’s a hen under your bed,” announced Joel, without any preamble, and marching up to the bedside.
“Hush, Joe,” said Polly. Then she laid her rosy cheek against the withered one under the big flapping ruffles.
“Good morning, Grandma.”
“You needn’t sweep up just yet,” said Grandma, with an eye for Polly’s broom.
“I’m not sweeping,” said Polly, rosier than ever.
Then she tried to lift Phronsie up on to the gay patched bedquilt by Grandma’s side.
For the first time in visiting Grandma Bascom, Phronsie pulled back. “I want to tell poor old biddy to go out,” she whispered, struggling violently; “let me tell her, Polly, do,” she implored.
“No, no, Phronsie,” said Polly, holding her fast, “you must do as I say, Pet, or else you’ll have to go home.”
So Phronsie, two big tears splashing their way down the pink cheeks, was set on the bed by Grandma’s side.