“O dear me!” exclaimed the old lady, in the greatest distress at the sight of these, “what in the world is the matter? Didn’t she want to come to see Grandma?” So Polly had to lean over and scream as much of the whole story about the hens as was possible into the old lady’s ear.
Meantime, Joel had determined to see to the old hen himself; so he had crawled under the bed, and by dint of wriggling smartly back and forth had at last caught her by one leg; since forgetting how she had crept in under the valance, she ran round and round in a vain effort to get out.
And presently amid a terrible squawking, out he came, flushed and triumphant, dragging her after him.
“I did get her,—bad old thing!” he cried jubilantly, his black eyes flashing. “See, Polly, see, Grandma!” and he swung the poor bird up before them.
Phronsie gave a loud scream.
“Joel Pepper!” cried Polly, bounding after him. But Joel was already out through the kitchen, and with a wave of his hand sending the clumsy old hen over to the grass-plot in front of the door. “Shoo, now, scat!” he said, which being just what best suited the hen at this time, she plunged in under the currant bushes, to relate her story to some other hens who came running to the spot.
All this delayed the work of the morning. But at last Polly saw the two boys splitting and piling the kindlings neatly, and Phronsie was reading most importantly aloud to Grandma, who alternately dozed, and opened her eyes, saying, “You pretty creeter, you!” while Polly herself was busy as a bee over her housewifely tasks.
At last the bread was baked (Mrs. Pepper having run over and made it the night before) and Polly drew a long breath, then ran into the little bedroom. “Well, Phronsie, Pet, now you must hop down and play, and I’ll stay with Grandma,” and there was Phronsie fast asleep, one hand up across Grandma’s little plaid bed-shawl, while Fox’s “Book of Martyrs” had slipped to the floor.
And there was Phronsie fast asleep.—Page [254].