“Nonsense, you’re no bigger’n a chicken,” exclaimed Polly, merrily setting down Joel’s mush-bowl and spoon among the other things the Pepper family had used at their simple breakfast.
“I’m not a chicken,” said Phronsie, in a grieved little voice, and standing quite tall.
“Oh, yes, you are,” declared Polly, gayly. Then, as she caught sight of Phronsie’s face, she turned her back on the big dish-pan, and seized her for a good hug. “A sweet, puffy little chicken,—there, and there, Phronsie Pepper!”
“Am I just like Mrs. Henderson’s chickens?” asked Phronsie, slowly, a light breaking over her face.
“Yes, as like as two peas,” declared Polly, shaking her head decidedly. “Oh, you can’t think, Phronsie. You’re just exactly like one of Mrs. Henderson’s chickens, every single bit.” With that she gave her another hug.
“Am I like the little yellow one, Polly?” asked Phronsie, as Polly at last set her free, and flew off to her long-delayed dish-washing, only to find the water cold. “Am I, Polly?”
“Eh, what?” asked Polly, wrinkling up her brow in dismay. “Now what shall I do,—that old stove!— And the fire’s out, of course. O dear me, Pet, what is it?”
“Am I like the little yellow one, Polly?” asked Phronsie, thrusting her face in between Polly and the dish-pan. “Am I, Polly?”
“The little yellow what?” asked Polly, all her thoughts on her delayed morning work, and her hurry to pull out all those basting-threads on the coats Mamsie had just finished for Mr. Atkins, to surprise Mrs. Pepper when she had come home from Deacon Blodgett’s where she had gone to help in the spring cleaning.
“You said I was like Mrs. Henderson’s chickens,” said Phronsie, her lip beginning to tremble, “and can’t I be like the little yellow one? Please make me, Polly.” A big tear she was trying to keep back wouldn’t stay in its place, but ran down over the round cheek.